Medal of Honor
Chris Ryan has fought in military conflicts around the globe.
He was the Commander of the Sniper squad within the anti-terrorist team of the SAS.
He was the only member of an eight man patrol on the Bravo Two Zero Gulf War mission in Iraq who, when the mission was compromised, fought his way to freedom.
His ordeal made history as the longest escape and evasion by an SAS trooper, for which he was awarded the Military Medal.
First published in Great Britain in 2012 by Coronet
An imprint of Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © Chris Ryan 2012
The right of Chris Ryan to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
ISBN 9781444765854
Hodder & Stoughton Ltd
338 Euston Road
London NW1 3BH
www.hodder.co.uk
Chris Ryan
Medal of Honor
Also by Chris Ryan
Non-Fiction
The One That Got Away
Chris Ryan’s SAS Fitness Book
Chris Ryan’s Ultimate Survival Guide
Fight to Win
Fiction
Stand By, Stand By
Zero Option
The Kremlin Device
Tenth Man Down
Hit List
The Watchman
Land of Fire
Greed
The Increment
Blackout
Ultimate Weapon
Strike Back
Firefight
Who Dares Wins
The Kill Zone
In the Alpha Force Series
Survival
Rat-Catcher
Desert Pursuit
Hostage
Red Centre
Hunted
Black Gold
Blood Money
Fault Line
Untouchable
In the Red Code Series
Flash Flood
Wildfire
Outbreak
Vortex
Twister
Acknowledgements
With thanks to the teams at Electronic Arts and Mischief PR for this opportunity and to my agent Barbara Levy, publisher Mark Booth, Charlotte Haycock and the rest of the team at Coronet.
CONTENTS
COVER
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COPYRIGHT
TITLE PAGE
ALSO BY CHRIS RYAN
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
FOREWORD
GLOSSARY
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
FOREWORD
This all started with an introduction. It was a chance meeting with a unique group of individuals that would lead to the dramatic change in one of the most storied franchises in gaming history. For the first time in eleven years, Electronic Arts had decided to move Medal of Honor out of World War II and into the modern era and the fight in Afghanistan. The series has had a long tradition of telling the soldier’s story in an honorable and respectful way, devoid of any politics or debate. However, this was a new war with a new enemy. And standing in front of us was a new type of warrior – The Tier 1 Operator.
We’ve all seen the movies, we’ve read the books and have been told larger-than-life stories of men who eat snakes, shoot with surgeon-like skill, and shit Kevlar. But where do these men come from? What makes them tick? Are these stories true, or are they myths? And most importantly, what do you say to a handful of these gentlemen, standing a few feet in front of you, in an effort to convince them it would be a good idea to tell the world their story and to do so in the form of a video game?
You don’t say anything. You just listen.
You quickly learn it’s not about them. It’s not about the enemy. And, it’s certainly not about the medal. It’s about the man. It’s about a community of warriors. It’s about sacrifice and brotherhood. It’s about commitment and purpose. A life-test. About the drive in an individual, so deep that when the world around them has gone to shit, their frist thought is, “I can fix this” – with a reserved, quiet confidence. It’s about the type of man who runs toward gunfire instead of away from it. The type of individual who thinks perfect isn’t good enough, with great humility. It’s about the truth. It’s about respect. It’s about honesty and integrity in one’s beliefs and actions. It’s about Honor.
Before us stood a group of men who had sacrificed their whole lives for the Honor of becoming what they are and the privilege of standing alongside men of equal character. They have been held in high regard, celebrated and written about in books and in movies – and now in Medal of Honor. It has been an amazing journey since that first fateful meeting. And in the end we have found our truth. And it has absolutely nothing to do with the fabled myths, folklore, or legends of dedicated men. Our truth is in our intent, and our intent is to simply say thank you. Thank you to the Operators around the world who keep our enemies frightened in their beds at night – so we may sleep peacefully in ours.
GREG GOODRICH
EXECUTIVE PRODUCER
MEDAL OF HONOR
JULY, 2010
GLOSSARY
BCR/
BATTLE CASUALTY REPLACEMENT
BERGEN /
ARMY BACKPACK
CAFTAN /
A LOOSE ANKLE-LENGTH GARMENT WITH LONG SLEEVES, TRADITIONALLY WORN IN ARAB COUNTRIES
CAM /
CAMOUFLAGE
CENTCOM /
UNITED STATES CENTRAL COMMAND
DISHDASH /
A SHORTENING OF THE WORD DISHDASHA. A DISHDASHA IS RATHER LIKE A CAFTAN – IN THAT IT’S AN ANKLE-LENGTH GARMENT USUALLY WITH LONG SLEEVES, WORN IN ARAB COUNTRIES. CAN ALSO BE KNOWN AS A THAWB OR THOBE, KANDURA, KHAMEEZ, OR SURIYAH
FOB /
FORWARD OPERATIONS BASE
FRAG /
FRAGMENTATION GRENADE
FRIEND /
SPRING LOADED CAMMING DEVICE (SLCD) USED IN ROCK CLIMBING
IR FILTER /
INFA RED FILTER
LZ /
LANDING ZONE
M4 CARBINE /
RIFLE
MBITR /
RADIO
MRE /
MEAL, READY-TO-EAT
NV /
NIGHT VISION
OP /
OBSERVATION POST
RPG /
ROCKET PROPELLED GRENADE
SAS /
SPECIAL AIR SERVICE
SBS /
SPECIAL BOAT SERVICE
SHAMAG /
TRADITIONAL HEAD SCARF MADE FROM A SQUARE OF CLOTH (USUALLY COTTON) AND FOLDED AND WRAPPED IN VARIOUS STYLES AROUND THE HEAD
SIG P226 /
PISTOL
SITREP /
SITUATION REPORT
THE STAN /
AFGHANISTAN
UAV /
UNMANNED AERIAL VEHICLE
WADI /
ARABIC TERM REFERRING TO A VALLE
Y OR A DRY RIVERBED
SO, YOU WANT TO KNOW WHAT HAPPENED THAT NIGHT?
It should have been nothing. Nothing for me, anyway. I’d been in The Stan since a few days after Bin Laden decided to play demolition derby with the Twin Towers. Hereford one day, Hindu fucking Kush the next. Almost lost track of how long I’d been out here. Two weeks? Three? The days and nights merged into one. Theatre like this, you just keep on keeping on. Those AQ and Taliban fucks don’t care if they slot you the day you arrive or the day you leave, so you can’t switch off until you’re on an aircraft out of there.
Even so, I thought I’d seen my share of the action. The Regiment had its teams out on the ground that night, and so did the American Tier 1 units. That night they were called AFO Wolfpack and AFO Neptune. Their purpose: reconnaissance. The Taliban regime in Kabul was known to be harbouring Al-Qaeda groups. Bin Laden himself was probably nearby. We were there to locate these groups and, if necessary, eliminate them. It meant long stretches on the ground. Take it from me that the last couple of weeks had been intense.
I was on hand that night as battle casualty replacement, along with a handful of my US counterparts. Truth was, though, I expected to have one more night in this forward operating base and then, come sunrise, a transport home, for a little bit anyway, so I could brief my colleagues on what to expect out here. For now my kit was squared away and I was just looking forward to a few days away from the front line.
The FOB was basic. A plateau of flat earth surrounded on all sides by a ring of craggy mountains. It was hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock. Give it a couple of months, though, and these peaks would be covered in snow. That was the problem with Afghanistan. Extremes. The people who lived here were used to it. It made them hard. Easy to underestimate, and that would be a mistake. The engineers had erected a couple of tents on the northern side of the FOB, which the Regiment and SBS lads shared with the Tier 1 boys. When we weren’t out on the ground, these tents were where we took our briefings, ate and slept. Tried to sleep, I should say. Not easy with the constant comings and goings of old Russian helicopters. But hey, you get used to dog-tired being your default state.
The sun was setting over the mountains on that last evening. Pretty enough, if that’s your scene. No wonder this region used to be part of the hippie trail. One look at it now, though, would be enough to make a hippie choke on his reefer. The FOB was dotted with troops either arriving or departing; choppers thundered up above us and disappeared over the brow of the mountains. The machinery of war everywhere. I was sitting on a metal flight case, my rifle by my side, tearing open an MRE and thanking God that I wouldn’t have to eat too many more of these for while, when a figure stood over me, blocking out the sunlight.
‘Jee-sus, Jock.’ A slow, Southern drawl. ‘What in the name of fuck is that?’
I looked up. The guy standing two metres away from me had a beard as dark as his shades and a black and white shamag draped round his neck. Impossible to see his eyes, and I reckon Dusty liked it that way. The beard, and his brown, weathered skin, made him look more native than an Afghan carpet. That was why we all wore beards – to give us a chance of blending into the towns and villages.
‘Dinner,’ I told him, and I started scooping out the cold meatball and pasta stodge from inside its foil case. American MREs were in a different league to ours. No point bitching about it. Food was food. Fuel. Nothing more. I swallowed a mouthful and looked up again. He was still looking over me. ‘What is this, Dusty – a sunset dinner for two?’ Dusty shook his head. ‘You Brits…’ he started to say. He never finished, because just then another voice reached our ears – a thick Boston accent, curt and no-nonsense.
‘Jock, Dusty, we’re on. Briefing area, now.’
The voice belonged to Voodoo. He didn’t look at us as he walked behind Dusty towards the tents. Not his style. Not ours to hang around either. When you’re a battle casualty replacement, the word to stand by generally means there’s a man down in the field. I wolfed down a couple more mouthfuls of food, then hurried with Dusty towards the briefing area of the nearest tent.
The briefing area was cordoned off from the rest of the tent by a line of plywood panels. Nowhere to sit. Just a board with a satellite map pinned to it, and a US Army Intelligence Officer who called himself Jackal, along with a couple of his guys I didn’t recognize, standing by. He was one of those men with a permanent frown, and beads of sweat on his balding head. He looked impatient.
‘Where the hell’s Rabbit?’ Jackal asked as we congregated around the map.
‘Rabbit’s right here.’ I looked over my shoulder and there he was, stern-faced and narrow-eyed. Rabbit got his name on account of his six kids, but you never saw the ladies’ man or the doting daddy out here. All you saw was the warrior.
Jackal nodded. ‘OK, gentlemen. Listen up. First things first, breathe easy. This is not a BCR operation. We have no casualties.’
‘’Alle-fuckin’-luia,’ said Dusty.
‘So what’s happening?’ Voodoo demanded, chomping at the bit, as usual.
Jackal raised one eyebrow and looked at us: two Neptune, one Wolfpack, and one SAS. Unconventional to say the least. ‘We need a team ready for immediate deployment. You’re it.’ He tapped at the map. ‘This is the village of Pajay, thirty miles north-east of here.’
I looked at the map. Big village, small town. Take your pick. A mile east to west, about the same north to south. Mountain range on the northern edge, fuck all but desert to the south.
‘Pajay is surrounded by run-down compounds and outbuildings, but these are mostly deserted and have been since the Russian occupation. But the village itself has a fairly large population – somewhere in the high hundreds. It’s also, to the best of our knowledge, littered with AQ. Seems we haven’t done a good enough job of sweeping the assholes out of that area.’
‘I’ll get my broom,’ Voodoo said.
Jackal ignored him. ‘This,’ he continued, holding up a grainy photograph, ‘is your target. Name of Malouf. Fine figure of a man. Collects taxes for the local warlord, Mahmoud Afridi.’
We all studied the picture. Malouf was a jowly man with small, piggy eyes and a wispy beard. ‘I shot better-looking razorbacks than him back home,’ Dusty noted.
‘Well, you won’t be shooting this one. CENTCOM want the contents of this dude’s head. All our intel suggests his boss is an enthusiastic partner of the Taliban.’
None of us looked surprised at that. It was no secret to anyone that the Americans were about to hit the Taliban hard and fast. The Afghan warlords had a choice to make: pave the way to work with the Americans, or continue to back the Taliban. Or, knowing the way these people approached things, do both. Some of the warlords were firmly in the Taliban’s pockets, though, and it seemed like this Afridi was one of them.
‘It appears Malouf sees things a little differently,’ said Jackal. ‘He knows his boss’s days are numbered. If Afridi goes, there won’t be any taxes for our man to collect. He can see his livelihood disappearing, so he’s willing to sell us information.’
‘Ain’t nothing like loyalty,’ Dusty murmured.
‘Warms the heart, doesn’t it?’ said Jackal. ‘But this piece of shit, Malouf, claims to know the whereabouts of a high-value AQ target called Al-Zaranj. If he’s telling the truth, that makes him and his information valuable. It also makes his situation precarious. We need to get our hands on him right now. He’s too scared to leave Pajay by himself in case Afridi gets suspicious, so that means we need to go to him. And we need to do it now before anyone starts getting cold feet.’ Jackal looked at each of us in turn. ‘At 22.00 hours you’ll be inserted into the vicinity of Pajay. The Ops Centre at MacDill knows where Malouf’s going to be tonight. They’ll guide you in by satellite to his position. Once you’ve located him, you’ll decide if he’s on the level, then get whatever intel you can out of him. This is in and out, gentlemen. Nobody wants this to go noisy. We don’t even want anybody to know you’ve been in th
ere. Once we have a fix on Al-Zaranj’s location, we’ll have a separate unit go in and pick him up.’ Jackal inclined his head. ‘Or take him out. Questions?’
There were none. Just four grim faces, ready to do whatever needed to be done. As for me, it looked like my last evening in The Stan was going to be more exciting than I thought.
‘All right then,’ Jackal announced. ‘You leave in three hours. Get your kit together. Now.’
22.14 HRS.
The four of us sat alongside each other in the belly of a Russian MI-8 transport helicopter. Three Yanks, one Brit. Not your average set-up. I’d never worked with these Tier 1 guys before, not out on the ground, so I hoped the reputation they had was well earned. Were they thinking the same about me? Of course they were. In our world, reputation is everything. Lose that and you’re on the way out. I reckoned we all knew that over the next few hours we’d have the opportunity to show what we were made of. Jackal had said in and out. Experience taught us that things were rarely that simple.
The inside of the MI-8 was fucking horrible. Rickety, noisy, the air thick with the stench of fuel, and almost unbearably hot. But the ordinary people of Afghanistan were used to seeing these aircraft since the Russian occupation of the 1980s. The Tier 1 lads were using them to get around in an attempt to disguise who they were. Rabbit was next to me, twirling his lucky talisman a few inches in the air, then catching it and repeating the operation. The talisman in question was, of course, a rabbit’s foot, and Rabbit kept it on him at all times. So far the charm had worked well, even though we all knew that out on the ground luck had little to do with anything.
Afghanistan was rapidly becoming the most dangerous theatre in the world. It was classified information that we were in the country, but the Taliban and their AQ buddies sure knew we were there. Every step we took out on the ground was a dangerous one. In the built-up areas we risked being outnumbered at any moment. Even away from the villages and towns we were under the constant threat of long-range sniper fire or ambushes. Let your concentration drop for a second and you’re going home in a box. Either that or you get a starring role in the next Al-Jazeera news bulletin. In circumstances like that, training, expertise and sheer bloody-mindedness to do the job well were more important than any lucky charm, and the guys with me in the MI-8 had those tools in spades.