Ray cupped his hand over his watch, carefully unlatching the leather cover with the slightest movement. The faintest glimmer of light or the slightest sound could betray the position they’d been holding for hours. Their lives—and the mission’s success—hung entirely on silence and invisibility. He held his breath as he peeked at the luminous dial: 2:36 a.m. Snapping the cover shut, he muffled the faint click.

His hand drifted back to the trigger guard of his rifle—his senses attuned to the night’s faint stirrings. Every sound carried far in the cool mountain air, ricocheting off the steep walls of the ravine-like faint murmurs. Even the distant call of a night bird seemed unnervingly loud.

The assault team had been lying motionless among jagged rocks for nearly four hours. Before settling into position, Ray had swept away loose stones and pebbles beneath him, avoiding even the accidental scrape of rock on rock. It was a soldier’s ritual born of bitter experience. Small precautions often meant the difference between survival and disaster. He shifted his weight ever so slightly, wiggling his toes inside his boots and flexing his leg muscles to keep the blood flowing. Inactivity stiffened the body, especially when one was forced to hold still for hours.

He flashed to a cold December morning at Sandhurst in 1967—his first year. The cadets had been standing at ease for over an hour, awaiting inspection from a visiting General. A Welshman beside him, Cadet Beddow, hadn’t moved a muscle. When he collapsed forward like a toppled tree, the sound of his jaw cracking against the pavement still lingered in Ray’s mind. The memory was sharp: orderlies rushing in, dragging poor Beddow away while his boots scraped across the ground, leaving deep scars on his polished toecaps. Six months later, Beddow was discharged, his face disfigured. Ray grimaced at the thought and pushed it aside. This was no parade ground. Tonight, there was no margin for error.

The ambush site had been scouted days earlier under the guise of routine patrols. Ray and his men had studied the terrain without betraying their intentions. A careless adversary might have overlooked the subtle extra attention to the area, but the adoo—the enemy guerrillas—were anything but reckless. Skilled in reading patterns, they could detect even the slightest change in their enemy’s behaviour. Still, Ray trusted his instincts. This supply route was vital to the adoo used to smuggle weapons, food, and ammunition into the mountains. The terrain left them few options, funnelling all movement through predictable choke points.

Three weeks earlier, Ray had intercepted the enemy farther down the trail. Tonight, he gambled they’d use the same approach. Of course, no plan was ever perfect. The best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry. Robert Burns’ words echoed in his mind. Ray had seen enough missions fall apart despite meticulous preparation. The adoo learned quickly from their losses. They’d likely scouted the outpost’s mortar range and anticipated possible ambush sites. Knowing this, Ray had pushed his strategy to the limit, positioning his mortar team a full kilometre forward of the base—extending their reach to the edge of the wadi, just over four kilometres away. It was a calculated risk, but one he believed would pay off.

Eight men crouched in the shadows beside him, each rehearsed and ready. The group had been reduced the day before when Lance Corporal Wahid came down with a cold. The sniffles and coughs might as well have been a bullhorn announcing their position. Replacing him wasn’t an option—every man’s role was critical. The eight would have to suffice.

A kilometre behind them, Jock’s team lay in wait, entrenched and ready to provide covering fire during the withdrawal. It was a tried-and-true strategy. Ray always led from the front—Jock handled support.

“If it ain’t fucking broke, why fix it?” Jock had said more than once, his thick Scottish brogue leaving no room for argument.

The plan was simple: hit fast, hit hard, and get out. Ambushes weren’t meant to be prolonged battles. The element of surprise was their only true weapon.

The moon hung high and bright, its cold light bathing the ravine in a pale, spectral glow. Ray swiped a slick of sweat from his brow and adjusted his grip on the rifle. Every nerve was taut, his eyes flicking across the cliffs, searching for the faintest hint of movement.

Then he saw it—a flicker of shadow.

At first, it was just a shape. Then another. Figures emerged, slipping into view one by one. Ray counted five scouts, moving cautiously through the channel, their eyes scanning the rocks. His team held their breath, fingers hovering over triggers, waiting for his signal. The scouts passed without incident. Let them go, Ray thought. Jock would deal with them soon enough. His focus shifted to the column behind them. Minutes crawled by.

Then, the donkeys appeared. The faint shuffle of hooves wrapped in cloth reached his ears first. The lead donkey emerged, burdened with supplies, guided by a man holding a rope. One by one, they filed into the kill zone. Ray counted ten donkeys and thirty men. Five hundred kilograms of supplies, he estimated. Enough to sustain the adoo for weeks.

Ray’s breathing slowed. His senses sharpened. The column was now well within the kill zone. Around him, his men were tense, their fingers steady on triggers.

When the final donkey passed Ray’s position, he gave the signal. Rising to one knee, he raised his Kalashnikov—a prize taken from an adoo fighter during an earlier skirmish—and squeezed the trigger.

The night exploded. Gunfire roared, shattering the stillness. Ray’s opening salvo tore into the rear of the column, cutting down two men instantly. Around him, his team opened fire, their rifles spitting controlled bursts into the chaos below.

Private Murshidi was steady as ever. A former hunter, his first shot dropped the lead donkey, and the second took down another. He worked methodically, his aim unerring. The adoo scrambled for cover, their shouts drowned by the thunder of gunfire. Pack animals bucked and brayed, spilling supplies across the track. The ravine was chaos—bodies and provisions tangled in a deadly mess.

Ray switched magazines, firing short bursts to ensure the supplies were ruined. The column was wrecked. That was enough. He unclipped his radio and signalled the mortar team. Seconds later, the first shell screamed through the air, detonating against the far wall of the ravine. The explosion sent a cascade of rock and debris raining down on the enemy.

“Go!” Ray’s voice cut through the pandemonium.

One by one, his men withdrew, peeling back as the mortars continued to hammer the ravine. Another shell hit, its concussive force rippling through the gorge. Ray ducked instinctively, then bolted after his team. By the time they reached Jock’s position, the enemy was still pinned under mortar fire.

“All, okay?” Ray asked, crouching beside his second-in-command.

“Got the scouts,” Jock replied. “You?”

“Column’s wrecked. Supplies screwed.”

Jock grinned.

“We’ll check it out at dawn.”

“Be careful,” Ray warned. “They’ll be bloody mad, trying to recover what they can. They’ll expect us to press while they’re vulnerable.”

“No probs, Kaz.”

“I’ll get my lot back. We’ll have some chai waiting for you.” Jock threw him a lazy salute.

Ray smirked and led his men off into the darkness.