CHAPTER ONE
He stood motionless at dawn next to the old radar station on Shepherd's Hill Lookout, staring at the horizon over the torrid sea waters stretched out before him. He could hear the waves crashing on the rocks far below; his hands grasped the guardrail atop the sheer cliffs with a white knuckled grip of steel. He was there every clear morning he could be, waiting for the sun to clip the waves with gold and splash it across his face. A tug boat's horn broke the silence as it muscled a coal ship into port far to his left, a jogger shuffled past behind him with a laboured greeting from climbing the hill her blonde hair streaming behind in her wake, "Morning," but he didn’t respond although the voice was familiar. John Stanton stood motionless with no expression, not even a blink; the sun split the water with its piercing gold light as it made its presence known and heralded the start of the day. It shot across his face and with a ricochet from his gleaming Harley Davidson parked behind him and lit the back of his black attire. He mumbled quietly, “At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them. His mind drifted and entered the past.
IRAQ, Central Baghdad, June 2003. Sergeant Major Stanton stepped through the archway, the only access to the courtyard left standing from relentless artillery bombardment, his sniper’s rifle levelled, safety switch off. He had turned off his communication system so he could hear as best he could inside his helmet. There was no one to communicate with; his unit had been lost including his commanding officer. His British uniform was unrecognisable, covered in dust and the blood of comrades. The suicide bomber, laden with explosives, who had only minutes before killed the last four of his unit with an AK47 assault rifle had come through this archway and Stanton hunted for the like a wounded lion, the wounds were in his heart.
To his right in the courtyard corner he saw a young boy, no more than 10, lying on the ground. A tall, slim figure clad from head to toe in a dirty grey thawb with full headdress, he wore a body brace of high explosives, he levelled an AK47 assault rifle at the child's head. A shot rang out and the tall, slim figure's head jerked to one side as the bullet from Stanton's 7.62 Rangemaster sniper's rifle met its mark and his body slumped to the ground sending dust into the air. A second person dressed in a thawb ran to the low wall area behind the boy from an adjacent doorway in an attempt to scale the wall, dragging a naked man with a rope around his neck with him. He sprayed bullets towards Stanton from his assault rifle as he ran but they were inaccurate. Stanton's next shot was not. The shot hit the figure in the chest and lifted him over the wall, leaving the naked man on the end of the rope behind.
He shouted in clear English, "Kuwaiti!" Stanton froze with his weapon sighted on the naked man. "You saved my son, thank God!" he shouted as he crawled to the boy and hugged him in tears of joy and distain. Stanton sighted the rest of the courtyard, "There is no one left here," cried the naked man. "The rest of my family is dead; you have just killed the last of the Republican guard here, they hide from the Americans." Stanton checked over the wall, he could hear the rumble of an American armoured column far down the block and could see the soldiers checking buildings as they progressed. He went to the naked man and boy now huddled against the wall and looked inside what was left of the dwelling in the courtyard, finding a dead woman and two young girls. He saw his own daughter's face as he looked upon the innocent girls, no more than 15 years old. He looked at the naked man and boy then walked calmly towards the archway reloading his weapon. "My friend," whimpered the naked man, "What is your name?" Stanton turned to the man and boy.
"John… John Stanton," he replied. The naked man had gathered himself, he covered his body with a dusty garment retrieved from nearby and rose to his feet clutching his son.
"Your name and face I will remember, you have given me my life and my son. I will find my own and our lives will not go to waste. You are British?"
"Yes," replied Stanton.
"We will find and repay you for this," the naked man pointed to a bag lying in the dust. "A map, you will need the map in this bag, it will help keep you safe - the circled places are safe."
Stanton walked towards the arch. "You take the map and get out of here. I haven't shot you but there are plenty of people around here that will. Wait till darkness, the flushing operations are not concentrated in this area in darkness, costs to many lives."
"How do you know we are not your enemies?"
"I have had my back to you twice for a few seconds, you could have picked up the assault rifle and shot at me, but you didn't. I don't really know but I would like to see your son live anyway, someone's got to clean this mess up, you and I won't live that long. Would you shoot my son under the same circumstances?"
"No."
"You didn't learn to speak English like you do around here either. If I take you back to our post you'll be interrogated; I don't want your son going through that, now wait till nightfall and go. I'm sure you know how to get around here better than me and remember there's a war on. Good luck." Stanton turned and walked towards the archway, his thoughts blurred to another time.
AFGHANISTAN, Faryab province, August 2009. Stanton stood in full view of the far hillside; the enemy could be clearly seen. The Afghan soldiers expressed concern through an interpreter that the Taliban were within range but Stanton stood in full view. Stanton studied the enemy through his binoculars. Australian armed forces Corporal Jenkins conveyed the concerns to Stanton. "Sir we are within range of the enemy; they could open fire any time, please take cover sir." Stanton handed Jenkins the binoculars.
"We’ve been in range for two days. They've purposely not tried to lose us, they could have whenever they wished, they know this place far better than we do. Tell me what weapon the lookout that is in full view has in his hands, he makes no attempt to hide, he knows I could shot his eye out from here, things are not often as they seem." Jenkins raised the binoculars and studied the lookout.
"Good God he has an AS50, where the hell did he get it?"
"Exactly Jenko, and why has he not shot me? Notice anything else?"
"He's wearing no headdress."
"So if he's got a weapon the Taliban have little access to, has no headdress and stands in full view of us like me, what do you think he's up to"?
"I have no idea sir, as long as I’ve been here I can’t work them out."
"I think he wants to talk to us Jenko". Stanton openly removed his helmet, held out his hands and began to walk out from the cover of the rock ledge they occupied.
"Sir," cried Jenkins. "You're leaving for home next week; there's no need for this. I’m sure they'll find something for you to do sir." Stanton looked round.
"Coming with me Jenko?" he smiled.
"If you wish sir."
"No, stay here and control the Afghans; they're getting restless; probably think I'm mad."
"I think you're mad too sir." Stanton laughed and walked on. He wound his way down the valley and up the far side of the hill, sometimes stumbling on the loose rocky surface to within a few metres of the enemy. His hunch was correct.
"I thought I recognised you. How is your son?" The Arab put down his weapon and moved into full view from behind the rocks.
"My son is fine, he’s in Australia studying at university, he's been there for some years."
"I suppose you have a name?" asked Stanton. The Arab moved forwards and embraced Stanton.
"Yes, Al Ahmadi, named by my father after where I was born in Kuwait. My family owns oil rich land and we are grateful for your help in Baghdad. Through contacts we have in Kuwait we found where you were and that you are returning home to retire." Covered faces peered out from the rocks as they spoke.
"Why have you gone to so much trouble to do this, and how do you know I didn’t draw you in?"
"We know what you do and have something for you that we hope you will use with great wisdom when you go home." Al handed Stanton a laptop computer. "It is from the heart of the devil and will allow you to strike at those who arm our enemies in greed. It was taken from t
he Taliban. Use its information and you will find those who contribute to arming those we fight, we will continue our silent fight from within our own garden. We can do nothing with this information as the perpetrators live in the west under cover of western governments. Take great care my friend, these people have powerful allies." Helicopters came into earshot. "We must go my friend our ride is here, or we too may end up in the war. God be with you and you must remember the word Jihad." Stanton clutched the laptop, nodded his head, turned and began to make his way back down the slope towards his own lines.
His thoughts faded and the sun had risen above the water. Someone had spoken to him.