CHAPTER 9

Essex County

Southern England

December

WITH ITS 2ND BATTALION of the Parachute Regiment back from its most recent deployment to Afghanistan, the 16 Air Assault Brigade had nearly all its troops at Colchester Garrison in time for the Christmas holiday. Several members of 2 PARA were receiving awards for valor, and the ceremony, with all the pomp and circumstance that the British Army has to offer, had been celebrated in the local media.

The garrison was on a heightened state of alert due to the recent terrorist attack in London. Barricades slowed approaching vehicles, giving base security cameras additional time to evaluate the passengers. Scales determined if a car or truck was unusually heavy and might be loaded down with explosives. Multipurpose canine teams patrolled between vehicles as they waited patiently to show the guards their identification cards.

The entire battalion, along with numerous other units from the brigade, formed up on the asphalt parade ground off Roman Way. Dressed in MultiCam fatigues and sporting their trademark maroon berets, the Paras were the pride of the British Army. On this special occasion, the Parachute Regiment’s colonel-in-chief, His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, would be attending the ceremony and decorating the troops.

The prince’s motorcade had been slowed by uncharacteristically bad traffic, delaying the start time, so the troops stood shivering in formation as the band played every patriotic tune they could muster to pass the time for the visiting dignitaries. To a man, the Paras were anxious to put the ceremony behind them. Their holiday leave would begin upon the conclusion of the events and, after a long overseas deployment, they were looking forward to spending time with their wives, girlfriends, mates, or favorite bartenders.

The band’s proximity to the troop formation made it impossible for the soldiers to hear anything but the music as they passed the time until His Majesty’s arrival. As the minutes ticked by, even the senior noncommissioned officers began to grow impatient.

• • •

The Al-Jaleel is an Iraqi copy of the Yugoslavian-made M69A 82mm mortar. Three of them had been placed in a triangular formation in the small backyard of a home on Wickham Road just north of Colchester Garrison. The crew was highly experienced, having fired similar weapons on hundreds of occasions on both sides of the Syrian conflict. Their leader, whom they knew only as Hayyan, had been an artillery officer in Assad’s army before switching sides and eventually migrating through Greece and into mainland Europe. He had been recruited for this job months earlier and had spent long hours training his team, supervising daily rehearsals, and reconnoitering the target once it was established.

A woman with a sweet English voice had reserved the home for the week, sight unseen, under the auspices of a golf escape for her husband and a few of his friends from London. Google Maps and a close target reconnaissance had confirmed it as an ideal location. They had moved into the rental house the evening prior and painstakingly positioned their weapons inside a shed in the backyard to conceal them from nosy neighbors and overhead surveillance. If their golf bags and luggage were heavier than normal, no one seemed to notice.

Now it was time to execute the mission for which they had so carefully trained. The flimsy corrugated tin roof of the shed was pushed aside, having been detached from its screws the night before, sight blocks were double- and triple-checked, and ammunition was laid out for fast access. Hayyan told the men to take their positions and watched the minute hand on his watch tick toward the time they’d been given by their handler.

“Thalaatha, Ithnaan, Wahid. . . Nar! ” The men responded instantly to his command, releasing the high-explosive rounds into the tubes before ducking out of the way as each weapon fired.

Because the target was far closer than the maximum range of 4, 900 meters, the tubes were placed at a high angle, which meant that the second and third volleys had been fired before the first rounds impacted.

The first three rounds landed simultaneously, with each round carrying a kilogram of explosive and accompanying shrapnel. Two of the rounds impacted within the close ranks of the troop formation, obliterating those in the immediate blast area and maiming dozens nearby. The third round impacted the parade deck in front of the troops and actually caused more wounded, the shrapnel dispersing over a wider spectrum. Those men not killed or wounded by the first volley were saved by the instincts that were still sharp from their time overseas. They hit the deck, almost in unison, the call of “Incoming! ” echoing across the parade ground. The members of the band had no such survival instincts and stood in shock as the second volley landed in and around their formation.

As the second volley found its mark, the regimental sergeant major took action.

“Three o’clock, three hundred meters! ” yelled the veteran of three wars, dating back to his first taste of combat at Goose Green in the Falkland Islands.

The troops responded without hesitation, sprinting from the kill zone and doing their best to drag their wounded comrades with them. Dignitaries dove under the bleachers and band members scattered in every direction as the third and fourth volleys landed. The Paras grabbed every piece of cover that they could find and immediately began treating the wounded. Belts became tourniquets and uniform jackets became pressure dressings as they fought to save their dying mates. While the men lay bleeding and screaming, the final volley impacted the parade ground. Second Battalion, which had survived the rigors of nine months in Afghanistan without losing a soul, had just been decimated on home soil. By the time the echoes from the explosions faded, the mortar crew had already piled into vans and were driving toward London.

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