‘You’re probably right,’ Adams said to Lizzie. ‘Do you think I should talk to the Brigadier?’
‘No bloody point,’ she replied. ‘You know what he’s like. Once he’s made up his mind about something, that’s it.’ She paused. ‘I could go in there and flash my tits at him, and it wouldn’t make a blind bit of difference.’ Adams couldn’t help but smile as she said this. ‘What are you smiling about?’
‘Your language,’ Adams replied. ‘The more tired you are, the worse it gets. That, and the thought of you running into the Brigadier’s office with your fun bags bouncing around.’
Lizzie slapped Adams on the arm. ‘Fun bags?’ she laughed. ‘Sodding fun bags? Oh, you are such a gentleman.’ She raised her hand to hit him again, and he dodged away to avoid another slap.
‘Come on, let’s go and see what Ronald’s up to,’ Adams said, walking across to the small group on the other side of the tent. He could hear Lizzie following him, and glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he wasn’t going to get belted when he wasn’t looking.
As he got to Ronald and the others, he could see that while Squadron Leader Webb was quite comfortable with the equipment that he was wearing, Major Clarke was far from it. The Major had a face like a beetroot and had beads of sweat rolling down his face even though he was only wearing the combat vest. Adams knew from experience that once the body armour was on, things got way more uncomfortable. Add a weapon and a helmet — and turn up the temperature a fair bit — and the Major was going to struggle.
Adams looked at Lizzie and could tell from the expression on her face that she was thinking the same thing. If Major Clarke had to go out on a shout, with full kit and in the heat of the day, it could be a problem.
‘Are you okay, sir?’ he asked Major Clarke. ‘You’re looking a bit hot there.’ Major Clarke looked at him with a pained expression.
‘I’d be fine if your mucker here wasn’t filling the pockets on this vest up with the world’s supply of stuff.’ Adams was relieved to see a faint smile on the Major’s face.
‘Well, hopefully it’ll come to nothing,’ Adams replied. ‘All a bit premature if you ask me. We’ve not even got a proper idea of casualties.’
‘It sounds bad, though, Adams,’ Squadron Leader Webb said. Adams looked at him, surprised. Even though they’d worked in the same hospital for the last few weeks, he didn’t think that the Squadron Leader had ever spoken to him before beyond a handshake and a ‘pleased to meet you’ when they’d first been introduced.
Major Clarke fiddled with one of the pockets on his combat vest, pulling a couple of latex gloves out which fell to the floor.
‘Bollocks,’ he muttered under his breath. They all jumped as Colonel Nick walked into the TRT tent and clapped his hands together.
‘Right then, team,’ he said. ‘Casualty update, five minutes.’ He looked at all of them in turn. ‘Clarke, Webb, I want both of you in the Ops Room.’ As they both started to unclip their combat vests, Colonel Nick turned to Adams. ‘You too, I suppose.’
Adams looked at him, unsure of what to say. If the Colonel had been the same rank as him, he probably would have come back with a pithy reply. But he wasn’t, so Adams kept silent. Major Clarke and Squadron Leader Webb shrugged their way out of their combat vests, leaving them in a pile on the floor before heading towards the door that opened onto the hospital corridor. Adams took his vest off as well and put it onto a chair before he followed them. As he approached the door, he glanced back and saw Lizzie blow him a kiss before starting to laugh.
Colonel Nick pushed the door to the Ops Room in the hospital with a determined shove, keen to make his mark. As he strode into the room, his determination was slightly deflated by the irritated look that Brigadier Foster gave him from the other side of the room where he was standing next to the radio operator.
‘Sorry, sir,’ Nick mumbled as he walked across to join him.
‘No need for theatrics, Colonel,’ the Brigadier replied. Nick just looked at the floor, not knowing what to say. His discomfort was saved by the arrival of Webb and Clarke, closely followed by Adams. ‘Gentlemen,’ the Brigadier continued, ‘thank you for coming. I think it’s time for an update.’ Brigadier Foster turned with a grim expression to the 2nd Lieutenant standing behind him. ‘Is that so?’
‘Er, yes sir.’ The young officer looked nervously at the new arrivals before shuffling his notes. Colonel Nick watched him take a deep breath before starting his brief. ‘Right, this is what we know so far.’ He paused before continuing. ‘The earlier 9-liner is confirmed. Four dead, two Cat As. One with a major head injury, one with abdominal extrusion. There’s also four Cat Bs, and at least seven Cat Cs.’
Colonel Nick’s jaw dropped slightly at this news. He knew it was bad, but four dead in a single attack was something that he’d not been expecting. From the looks on the others’ faces, they were as surprised as he was.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Colonel Nick heard Major Clarke whisper. With relief, he saw Brigadier Foster turn his irritation towards the Major.
‘Clarke, enough.’
‘Sorry, sir,’ Clarke said with a lot more conviction than Colonel Nick had managed. ‘It’s just, well, I wasn’t expecting that many fatalities.’
‘No, and I’m sure that the troops at the FOB weren’t, either,’ the Brigadier replied. ‘Right then, let’s talk this through. We’ve got one Chinook here at Bastion, and another one up at Kandahar with a QRF on board.’ He ran one hand through his silver hair. ‘If they’re reporting that many casualties, there’s almost certainly more, so I’m going with Colonel Nick’s plan to load extra medics on board to give us more flexibility. Our Chinook is winding up now and they’ve got launch authority. There’s at least one UAV over the scene, and two Apaches providing cover. Apparently, the Americans have got some air assets they can offer up as well, so the ground should be fairly secure when you go in.’
Nick looked at Major Clarke’s face. He had lost some of his ruddy complexion and was almost starting to look pale. Squadron Leader Webb, by contrast, was just standing there, arms folded, soaking it all up. The more he saw of Webb, Nick thought, the more he liked the guy. As he looked at the pair of them, he noticed Adams studying him carefully. What the fuck is he looking at?
‘Okay, so launch and then what?’ Brigadier Foster said. Nick looked at him before realising that the Brigadier was thinking out loud, and not actually asking them a question. ‘Major Incident, blood drive, what else?’ he muttered to himself.
‘Sir?’ Nick said, interrupting the senior officer’s train of thought. ‘Is the brief concluded?’
‘Yes, yes,’ the Brigadier replied. ‘All done, thank you.’ He dismissed the group in the Ops Room by turning his back on them and walking across to a map tacked to the wall of the tent, muttering as he did so.
‘Come on then, chaps,’ Nick said to the other medics. ‘We’re launching. Back to the TRT tent to kit up, and then to the pan.’
As they approached the door to the TRT tent, Nick felt a hand grab his upper arm. He turned to see Major Clarke looking at him, wide-eyed.
‘Nick, this really isn’t a good idea,’ the Major said. Colonel Nick wasn’t sure, but he thought there was a tremor in the other man’s voice. ‘Neither I nor the Squadron Leader are pre-hospital care trained. We shouldn’t be out in the field.’
‘It’s Colonel Nick, Clarke. Or sir. Not Nick,’ the Colonel hissed, watching with satisfaction as the Major took a half step back. ‘Now man the fuck up and get on with it.’ Nick opened the door to the TRT tent and held it open for Major Clarke, staring at him as the nurse walked through.
‘Colonel?’
‘What is it, Adams?’ Colonel Nick turned as he heard the voice behind him.
‘Just ease up on him a bit,’ Adams said. Colonel Nick stared at him.
‘What did you say?’
‘I think you heard me fine, sir.’ Adams replied. ‘Just ease up. He’s shitting himself. We’ve been there, we know what
it’s like outside the wire.’ Nick looked at Adams, unblinking. ‘He doesn’t,’ Adams continued.
‘Well, he’d better bloody well start then, hadn’t he?’ Nick replied. ‘This isn’t the time for fucking about.’ Adams didn’t reply but just looked at the Colonel impassively. After a few seconds, Adams walked past him and into the TRT tent.
44
Jackson and Major Fletcher both stared at the grenade as it rolled to a halt. They both reacted instantaneously, Major Fletcher back-pedalling away from the small round device, Jackson launching himself towards it. The Lance Corporal scooped his hand down, picked up the grenade, and lobbed it as hard as he could towards the wall it had just sailed over. Jackson then turned and rugby tackled the CO.
They were inches from impacting the ground when the grenade exploded, peppering them both with white-hot shrapnel. Jackson winced as he felt something slice through the back of his thigh, but then he and the Major both had their breath knocked out of them as they hit the floor.
‘Jesus wept,’ Major Fletcher gasped as they disentangled themselves from each other. ‘Bloody hell, that was close.’ Jackson didn’t reply but turned to examine the back of his leg. There was a six-inch long rip in his trousers, and through the jagged tear, he could see blood. ‘My God!’ the Major said. ‘You’re hit. Jacko, are you okay?’
‘I’m fine, sir, I think,’ Jackson replied, prodding at the wound. ‘It’s pretty superficial.’ He scrabbled in his trouser pocket for a field dressing.
‘Here,’ Major Fletcher said. ‘Let me help.’
As the CO was bandaging Jackson’s thigh, making a right old mess of it in Jackson’s opinion, a group of soldiers was getting a decoy ready over by the wall of the compound. Just to the side of the main doors of the compound was a firing slit — a hole in the wall to shoot through — and they were preparing one of the oldest tricks in the book. A helmet, on a stick.
Jackson got to his feet gingerly and examined the bandage.
‘Cheers, sir,’ he said with a grin. ‘Although you’re not that much of a medic, are you?’
‘There’s gratitude for you,’ the Major laughed. ‘Although what you just did was quite remarkable.’ He held out his hand for Jackson to shake. ‘Thank you, Jacko. I think I owe you a couple of beers.’
‘I’ll take you up on that, sir,’ Jackson replied. ‘Soon as we can. I knew those years playing cricket at school wouldn’t be wasted. We’d better get into cover.’ He nodded at the soldier crouched down under the firing slit, a helmet balanced on top of his rifle. Jackson and Major Fletcher moved to the side of the compound wall as the soldier popped the helmet into view before dropping it back down again. Hopefully, from the outside, it would look like a soldier lifting his head to look out of the firing slit for a second. The soldier waited for a few seconds before repeating the manoeuvre.
The second time he lifted the helmet up, there was a loud metallic zing which threw the helmet back into the compound. It rolled over and over in the soft earth. Clouds of dust from the wall covered the soldier holding the rifle who, to Jackson’s surprise, started laughing as a loud boom echoed around the compound.
Less than three seconds after the sniper had taken out the decoy, Jackson, Major Fletcher, and every other soldier in the compound jumped as a missile screamed over their heads, less than fifty feet above the external walls. A couple of seconds after that, there was a large explosion beyond the walls.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Jackson asked the CO. Major Fletcher looked at him and laughed.
‘That, Jacko,’ the officer replied, thumping Jackson on the upper arm, ‘is the sound of one less sniper.’ In the distance behind the compound, they could hear the throbbing of helicopter blades getting louder and louder. ‘Now, let’s get all firing points manned and show Terry that we’re still here.’
Jackson winced as he tried to run across the compound to get the rest of the troops into their firing positions. The wound on his leg might only be a scratch, but it still stung like a bastard. Above him, two angry-looking black Apaches swept over the top of the compound. He looked up, the child in him wanting to wave at the pilots, but they had their minds on other things. As both chain guns on the front of the helicopters opened up in unison, Jackson could hear the cheers of the other troops in the compound. By the time the Apaches had finished, there probably wouldn’t be much left for them to shoot at.
‘Bastion Ops, this is Sandman 34, requesting permission to lift.’ Flight Lieutenant Davies keyed the microphone as Taff completed the pre-flight checks in the co-pilot’s seat next to him. While he waited for a reply, Davies looked at the lightening sky through the cockpit glass. One of the only saving graces of this country, he thought, was that every once in a while, you got to see a view like the one he was looking at now. He got the authorisation from Bastion Ops and looked over his shoulder into the back of the Chinook. He could see Kinkers standing by the rear ramp, and the medical teams sitting down the sides with their equipment strewn across the floor.
Davies eased back on the cyclic and felt the twin-rotor blades start to bite into the thin air. As the helicopter started to rise into the air, both pilots heard a warning over the radio about another Hercules transport plane from Kandahar that was coming in on finals.
‘Should be at our ten o’clock,’ Davies said. ‘We can either go up and over when he’s on the ground or go round the northern perimeter.’
‘Probably not much in it,’ Taff replied. ‘I’d just go straight up, mate.’ Davies adjusted the controls and the Chinook started gaining altitude. ‘There he is,’ Taff said, pointing out of the cockpit window at a small shape near the horizon.
‘I have him, thanks. Up and over will be fine.’
Once they’d reached their cruising altitude, Davies put the helicopter’s nose down, and they sped toward their destination.
‘What do you think then, Davies?’ Taff said after a few minutes. ‘Bit of a close shave last time round coming into this FOB.’
‘Yeah,’ Davies replied. ‘But we’ve got a lot more support this time around. Sandman 55 is on his way from Kandahar with a full QRF on board. The Americans are sending an A10 as well, apparently.’
‘The Uglies are going in first, right?’ Taff had missed the detailed mission brief with what he’d called an ‘urgent admin issue’. In other words, he’d got the shits something awful, and had to go to the medical centre for what he’d described to Davies as a ‘chemical cork’. Taff had taken so much of the stuff that Davies thought he probably wouldn’t shit for a week.
‘Yep,’ Davies said. ‘Uglies and Sandman 55 first. Unload the cavalry, then they’re lifting, and we’ll be going in a few minutes later to collect the first round of casualties. Two of the medics are staying on board with us, the others are getting off and getting back on Sandman 55 for the second pickup.’
‘I bet Lizzie and Adams aren’t getting off,’ Taff said with a smile. ‘Not after last time anyway.’
‘Probably not,’ Davies laughed. ‘But at least this time we’ve got some more horsepower. The LZ is slap bang in front of the FOB, as soon as the QRF and the boys on the ground have pushed back the perimeter, we’ll drop in.’
‘Probably would have made more sense to have the LZ there in the first place,’ Taff said, spreading out an aerial photograph on his lap and studying it intently. Davies watched as he ran his index finger across the picture.
‘This is the way we came in last time,’ Taff said, pointing his finger at a location on the photograph, ‘and this is the general area that the RPG came from.’
‘There’s not much left there anymore, though,’ Davies said. ‘I think it got fairly flattened.’
‘So if we assume that the area’s clear, we could come in from the east, flare-up over the FOB and then put down.’ Taff prodded the photograph again to make the point.
‘Sounds reasonable to me,’ Davies agreed.
They flew at five thousand feet, well beyond the range of any small arms or RPGs.
Davies felt calm up here, where it was safe. He checked his instruments in front of him.
‘Ten minutes out,’ Taff said.
‘Roger,’ Davies replied and turned round to make sure that Kinkers had got the message in the back. Sure enough, he had both hands up in the air with his fingers outstretched to let the medics know the timings. Davies saw them stirring into life, collecting bags and weapons. As he watched them, one of the new medics, a Major who he didn’t recognise, looked up and caught Davies’s eye. Davies put a thumb in the air, which the Major returned. Despite the thumbs up, the pilot could tell from the look on the medic’s face that he was far from okay.
45
Brigadier Foster sighed as he scrolled through the e-mail in front of him, probably for the tenth time that morning. He looked at his watch. It was still early, and he felt as if he’d been up for hours. Which in reality, he had. He’d only been in bed for about thirty minutes the night before when he was woken by the Duty Officer who apologetically informed him that he had an incoming phone call in fifteen minutes. The Duty Officer was ever so sorry, but at the same time insistent that the Brigadier got up to take it.
Foster had got up and made his way to his office. As he’d walked into the room, the Duty Officer pressed a cup of coffee into his hand. Foster was fairly sure that he’d thanked him, but as he sat in front of his computer now, he made a mental note to say thank you again. It really had been an excellent cup of coffee. The night shift in the Ops Room obviously kept the decent stuff to themselves, as every other time Foster had been in there and been given a coffee, it had been rancid.
‘What on earth is going on?’ Foster mumbled as he re-read the e-mail and recalled the conversation he’d had earlier. The person on the other end of the phone was a three-star Lieutenant General back in London, who was having an even worse night’s sleep than Foster given the time difference. The General had been quite specific in his instructions to Foster on how ‘the people in Town’ wanted this particular situation dealt with.
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