Harrison - The Longest Kill: The Story of Maverick 41, One of the Worlds Greatest Snipers

For my loving wife Tanya and daughter Dani,

who loved and supported me in the dark days,

and a big thank you to Paul and Sue.

Helmand province, Afghanistan, November 2009

My index finger was resting on the trigger of my Accuracy International AWM .338 sniper rifle. It was the best sniper rifle in the world and was topped off with the best telescopic sight in the world: the Schmidt & Bender 5-25. Id been taught that the effective range of this rifle was 1,500 metres. Today, I was going to get it to reach a lot further.

Id been a sniper for ten years. Id been in firefights where my odds of surviving seemed slim to none, but Id never had to make a shot like this before. Id never had to shoot so far and to factor in so many variables, while under so much pressure. The pressure of life or death.

The three Jackal armoured vehicles I was commanding had set out from our base at 0400 hours. By daybreak wed been in position on high ground, about four kilometres south of Talajans district central. We were tasked with providing observation and protection to a joint British Army and Afghan Army foot patrol clearing a village in a valley below. Once I was happy that the Jackals were covering all the Talibans potential approach routes, Id grabbed my sniper rifle and positioned myself behind a crumbling old wall made of mud and straw the only half-decent cover the area offered.

The area was crawling with Taliban and as soon as the sun came up they started their attack. For three hours Id provided oversight, acquired and taken out Taliban targets. By now I was sweating, stripped down to a T-shirt under my body armour, even though it was a mild winters day. Then I watched as a vehicle-borne patrol from my regiment was dispatched to help the foot patrol. Theyd done their bit but now they were in a precarious position themselves, their Jackals bogged in and the crews my mates under attack from all flanks. They had good firepower on the vehicles but they were in a gulley and couldnt see what was happening around them. They were dangerously exposed and fighting for their lives. From my vantage point I could see the enemy machine gun that was pouring fire down at them. Id witnessed too many casualties being loaded on the back of a Chinook in this war. I had to take out the machine-gun crew.

To my mind the sniper is the ultimate professional soldier, one of the only true force multipliers in the British Armys inventory. A sniper pair can wreak havoc that is completely disproportionate to their number. They can slow battalion advances and turn attacks. They can enhance the defensive battle by making the attackers lives hell. We neutralize commanders and key equipment. As the hackneyed phrase goes, one shot, one kill. Snipers dont just kill though. They are trained to observe and report, carry out reconnaissance and can also adjust mortar and artillery fire. They are the masters of the shadows.

The British Army has had a sporadic relationship with sniping, continually having to re-learn lessons. The sniper pair was conceived and developed in the First World War and its basic principles have not really changed that much to this day. Unfortunately, in the interwar years snipers drifted out of fashion and in the Second World War sniping had to be re-established. The same thing happened when that war ended and after Korea. It wasnt really until after the Falklands War in 1982 that the British Army realized that their snipers needed to be permanently established and better equipped.

My regiment, the Blues and Royals, didnt have a history or culture of sniping in the way that other regiments do, particularly the Parachute Regiment, the Royal Marines and the Special Forces. I had to fight to become a sniper and I had to fight to bring my sniper rifle on operations. On this day it would turn the tide of a battle.

All the evidence said that it couldnt be done; that this shot was impossible. It was far outside the recognized range of the rifle, I was out of adjustment in my scope and my position was appalling. Every time the rifle recoiled a little chunk of wall broke away and I had to hold the bipod with my left hand just to stop it falling off. Accurate shooting is all about the minimal transference of interference to the weapon. I was struggling with that one today.

Four pounds of pull is all that it takes to cause the trigger to break. Once the hammer falls, the 16.2-gram bullet will leave the barrel at a speed of around 3,000 feet per second. I calculated that the bullet would take almost six seconds to reach the Taliban machine-gun crew. At this range every variable came into effect: wind speed, temperature, humidity; even the earths rotation in that six seconds would all affect the trajectory of the bullet. Thats a lot to think about. And underneath all of that was a twisting sense of urgency, knowing that time was running out.

I pushed all of the information and background noise out of my mind and focused again on my breathing. As the crackle and bang of gunfire from the valley faded away all I could hear was the thud of my heart. Through my scope I saw the gentle rise and fall of the cross hairs on the target and with each exhale I settled my aiming point on to the Taliban machine gunner. Even with the magnification of the scope the target was tiny, but I could clearly see the gunner and the weapon firing.

On my final exhale I paused and my world went still, perfectly still. I was like a statue with only the very tip of my index finger able to move. I willed my finger to start the pull and felt the briefest of resistance before the 4lb was taken up. The trigger broke and the rifle fired. It recoiled solidly into my shoulder and the scope rose off target before settling back down. Cliff, my spotter, had a telescope with far greater magnification than my telescopic sight and was able to see more detail. While staring through my own scope my right ear was straining, waiting to hear what Cliff said. The seconds slowly ticked by. Count six seconds now and you will see what I mean. At lot can change in that time; most importantly the target could move.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Cliff suddenly spoke.

Miss.

I cursed before getting a grip of myself. I cycled the bolt, chambering a fresh round, and started my firing sequence all over again. I got control of my breathing, took up the slack in the trigger and got my aiming point back on the target.

I know I can make this shot... I have to make this shot.

I was crouching behind a small bush in a copse, struggling to bring my breathing under control. My heartbeat was thumping in my ears, so loud I was convinced the sound would give me away. I clutched my rifle close to my chest. The smell of gun oil was strangely soothing and it steadied me.

The footsteps were getting closer now. I turned my head a few centimetres until I could see my companion, hidden behind a nearby tree. He gave me a nod he was ready. I waited until the last moment, forcing myself not to move, staring through the branches until I saw the outline of a man to my front. Then I stood, raised my rifle and pointed it straight at him.

Bang! I shouted. The dog walker jumped in the air, clutching his chest in fright.

You little shits! he screamed at my brother and me, as we tore off into the woods, laughing.

My brother and I rarely saw eye to eye, but we did come together for our favourite game of scaring dog walkers and other unsuspecting ramblers in the woods near our home in Cheltenham. The gun, a deactivated bolt-action rifle, was a present from my dad.