by Andy McNab
Chapter Twelve
DAVE DIALLED HOME ON THE SATELLITE PHONE. WHEN IT connected he listened to the ringing tone without hearing it. His head was ringing already from the bollocking he’d just given Riflemen McCall and Bilaal.Mal shouldn’t have left the shotgun. But Dave knew he’d been overcome by the cannabis plants. For Chrissake, he’d fallen asleep himself.But there was no such excuse for Angry McCall’s dash to save the shotgun. It was so insane that, deep inside, Dave couldn’t help admiring the lad’s bravery and commitment to a friend. Especially since that friend had recently been merciless in his criticism of Angry’s own mistakes.Dave had threatened to send Angus home, threatened anything he could think of, and the huge lad had hung his head and bitten his lower lip in silence.‘You said you were going to prove yourself,’ Dave reminded him. ‘And you will. But today you didn’t. I’m putting you on shit duties for a week.’He was just about to dismiss the lad when McCall said: ‘Sarge?’Dave waited, hands on hips.‘Sarge, I did it because I thought it was what my dad would have done.’ He looked up briefly, then back at the ground.Dave sighed. ‘You’ve got to learn to be your own man—’The phone’s insistent ringing snapped him back into the present. It was going on too long. Jenny should be at home because Vicky would be in bed. So why wasn’t she answering? The ringing gave him a hollow feeling. Had there been an emergency? No, he would have been told.This sound of the unanswered phone was a sound more empty than silence. He forgot Mal and Angry and with each ring his mind and heart were pulled a little closer to home. He was tugged back to England, to Wiltshire, to the camp, to his street, to his house and to Jenny, Vicky and their unborn baby. The journey made him tired and tense. He had reached that point in his absence when it was better not to think about them too much. And now he had gone all the way back for Jenny. And she wasn’t there.Dave held the phone to his ear even though the ringing had stopped. He was standing behind the place where soldiers washed their socks in the CQMS’s green bowls, behind the showers, behind the civilian area. Nobody was washing now but he could see a few socks and shirts and pairs of underwear hanging limp and forgotten in the Afghan darkness. This was the most private place he could get a signal to ring Jenny. He’d wanted to tell her he loved her. He’d meant to explain that the reason he didn’t phone more was that he tried not to think about her too much. Because too many home thoughts could make life here unbearable. He’d wanted to say all that. But she wasn’t there.
Jenny had put Vicky to bed. She was so tired she’d gone to bed herself soon afterwards. At first the ringing phone was a ringing phone in her dreams, reinforcing her sleep instead of disturbing it.Finally she was jolted awake. Her heart pounded. The telephone. And it must be the middle of the night. A night sound more ominous than silence. Maybe it was bad news. She tried to roll over to reach the receiver but she did not like to roll onto her pregnant belly. She had to shuffle to the edge of the bed instead.Just as she grabbed the receiver, the ringing stopped.‘Dave?’ she said. Even though she knew he’d gone. ‘Dave?’She heard her own voice in the empty room, talking to no one. She closed her eyes and turned on the light and when she opened her eyes the bedroom filled up the dark with familiar things. Which didn’t mean it wasn’t still dark really. One switch of the light and it would be there again.She dialled 1471. We do not have the caller’s number. It had certainly been Dave. She’d missed his call. She felt an acute sense of loss. She’d missed his call. She started to cry. She’d missed his call. God knows when he might get his hands on the satellite phone to ring again. There were times when he barely rang once in ten days and now she’d missed his call.And it would have been a close, intimate, night-time call when they might have said the things they were supposed to say, instead of the breezy daytime calls interspersed by shouting and chuckling from Vicky. She would have been able to tell him how she wanted him, no, needed him, to leave the army.She felt the heat of her tears as they ran down her face and onto the pillow.She hoped he’d call again. She lay awake, waiting. It seemed to her now that she’d spent the whole of her married life waiting for the phone and the reassuring sound of Dave’s voice. It also seemed to her that the other wives received more calls when the lads were away than she did. Leanne often got two calls in a week. So did Adi. At this thought, her tears flowed faster.Try again, Dave! she thought, and she thought it so hard that maybe he would read her mind from the other side of the world.
Chapter Thirteen
DAVE DECIDED TO TRY AGAIN, JUST IN CASE JEN HAD BEEN SLOW picking up. But a voice interrupted him.‘Er, Sarge . . . you finished, then? It’s just . . . it’s my bird’s birthday and . . .’You were never alone in an FOB. There was no privacy anywhere. He saw Rifleman Broom from 2 Section hovering awkwardly at the edge of the light.‘Here you are, mate.’ Dave handed over the phone.He strode back to the tent he shared with the sergeant major and the other platoon sergeants.Sitting on his cot he joined in the talk about the day’s success. By the time the company had left the area all resistance had been silenced and Major Willingham was confident that they’d foiled any Taliban hopes of taking the river crossing. And they’d done it without air support.‘So we won it for a day,’ Dave said. ‘How do we know they won’t be back tomorrow?’The others shrugged. It was a question most of them preferred not to ask.‘What was all that crap on the radio when you couldn’t move forward?’ asked Sergeant Barnes of 3 Platoon.Dave groaned and told them how Angus had gone back for Mal’s shotgun.‘I take it you’ve bollocked them both,’ Sergeant Somers of 2 Platoon said.‘Yep.’‘Why the hell did he do it?’‘He screwed up on a foot patrol early on and he’s been trying to make up for it ever since. But that’s not the reason he gave me.’‘What reason did he give, then?’‘He said it’s what his dad would have done.’Everyone groaned. There was no one in the company who hadn’t heard Angus McCall talking about his war hero father.‘Actually,’ CSM Kila said, ‘I don’t blame McCall.’All faces turned to him.‘He was wrong, of course, and you had to bollock him. But all he did was use Taliban tactics against the Taliban. Unlike us, the choggies don’t move around in fucking great platoons with enough hardware to sink a ship. They don’t have men out there carrying eighty pounds of equipment. They run around in their sandals with a rifle slung over one shoulder and maybe a mobile phone, and one of them can halt seventy-five British soldiers just by planting a booby trap in the right place.’Some agreed they could fight better in smaller, lighter units, like the Taliban. Others preferred the safety of a large company.‘But,’ Iain Kila said, ‘the real difference between the way we fight and the way the Taliban fight is down to RoE.’Everyone looked at Dave.Kila said: ‘They aren’t going to let you get away with that bloke in the ditch.’Dave had been questioned twice about the man Mal had shot.‘That pretty monkey is still insisting to the OC that you ordered Bilaal to kill a wounded man. She wants you investigated,’ Kila warned.Dave looked around the tent. ‘Would anyone here have casevaced out a bloke you’d shot and were body-searching for dead? If he was barely showing signs of life? And if carrying him back to the convoy would put your own men’s lives at risk? Would anyone here really have done that?’Everyone shook their head except Sergeant Somers. The ensuing discussion was lively. Dave had meant to get back to the satellite phone and give Jenny one last try but when the talk at last petered out he fell asleep instead.
Chapter Fourteen
SERGEANT JEAN PATTERSON OF THE ROYAL MILITARY POLICE SHARED a room with Asma at the base. As soon as they had met each other they had both known it would be one of those friendships that would long outlast their time at Sin City. Today they were interpreting at a shura requested by local tribal elders.‘We’re working with that blond platoon commander,’ Jean said in her soft Scottish lilt as they approached the convoy that was going to take them into the town. ‘And he can’t keep his eyes off you.’‘Which one? They’re all blond.’‘The one whose men need to pay a bit more attention to the RoE.’‘Oh, whatsisname who’s learning Pashtu. You nearly made him cry the other night when you
were going on about that bloke in the ditch.’Jean grinned. ‘His name’s Gordon Weeks. And he wouldn’t turn down a few Pashtu lessons from you in private.’‘I don’t teach Pashtu,’ Asma said. ‘And especially not to him. He’s the geezer who was moaning about the way we interrogated the detainees and he really pissed me off.’They arrived at the convoy of waiting vehicles and were met by a smiling Gordon Weeks.‘As salaam alai kum,’ he said enthusiastically.‘Morning!’ said Jean, her voice friendly. Asma did not dignify his Pashtu with a reply.They climbed on board the Vector. The Officer Commanding appeared with a Royal Engineer and the civilian oilman, Martyn Robertson.When everyone was ready, the boss gave the signal and the convoy set off.‘Now remember,’ Major Willingham said as they rumbled through the desert. ‘The tribesmen have invited us to this meeting and that is a very good sign. They want to hear exactly what you’re doing, Martyn, and you need to impress on them the benefits your work can bring to the area. But don’t let’s miss a chance for information-gathering.’ He glanced at Asma. ‘Any intelligence will be very welcome. Especially if they can help us pinpoint the exact location of that Taliban compound.’The headman’s house was extensive. The entire complex, house and yard, was bounded by high, thick walls. Shady trees were visible over the top. It was a tantalizing sight from the hot, dusty world outside.‘OK, dismount,’ Dave said. His soldiers positioned themselves around the walls.Only one armed soldier was going into the meeting. Dave had chosen Jamie. He was to adopt an alert but non-threatening stance near the door.Major Willingham and his team got out of the wagon. The boss held the door open for the two women. Dave didn’t miss the officer’s glance at the attractive girl from the Intelligence Corps, or the way she swept past him without looking at him or thanking him. Jamie followed the group closely.Inside, Jean and Asma sat down on the carpet. As usual, just being here felt wrong. They knew that, for the Afghans in the room, their role in the men’s discussions was barely tolerable. Women where they shouldn’t be. Women negotiating with men. Women in trousers.Asma lowered her eyes as she sat down and hid her legs. She had grown up hating burqas and all they stood for. Symbols of Islamic oppression. But whenever she sat on a carpet in her combat gear with the smell of sweet tea wafting around her, all she wanted was a burqa. She suspected covering yourself from head to toe in shapeless folds and creases gave you a kind of escape, even a kind of protection – not just from men, but from yourself.Boss Weeks sat down next to her.‘As salaam alai kum,’ he said to their hosts. Asma raised her eyebrows, Major Willingham stared at him, but the Afghans smiled and responded with a similar greeting.‘Been learning the lingo, eh? Well at least they understood you.’ Martyn Robertson lowered himself creakily on Asma’s other side. ‘Had a guy called Boyle in the last company who kept trying to speak the lingo and the locals never understood a word he said!’The head tribesman went through the usual welcome procedures but Asma felt he chose his words with unusual grace and sensitivity. As Jean translated Asma could not resist murmuring to the boss: ‘The way this man’s talking: he’s a cut above a lot of the others we meet.’The man introduced his two sons, who also sat cross-legged on the carpet. There were other, older men alongside them who weren’t introduced. Standing at the edges of the room, leaning silently against the rugs that hung on the walls, were more men, most of them young, some still boys. And by the doors stood a tall rifleman. He balanced his weight evenly on both feet. From time to time Jean glanced at him. She never once saw him move.Asma took over the interpretation. Major Willingham made a short speech which sounded as though he had learned it off by heart. He said that NATO was committed to supporting the democratically elected government of Afghanistan, and that the Afghan people should decide their own future and not let the Taliban tell them what to do. The Taliban were using and attacking civilians while Britain was committed to helping the Afghans create a stable, peaceful country which was true to its Islamic principles. Britain would fight extremism and do everything possible to help Afghanistan’s reconstruction and development.Asma had translated similar speeches often before. This time, however, she found herself embellishing it a little. Afghanistan was a great country, she added, and it was time for such a country to take its rightful place on the world stage, something it could never do if the Taliban was in control. She glanced at Jean as she spoke. Jean raised an eyebrow. Asma wanted to giggle, until she saw the effect of her words on the Afghans present and knew she had said the right thing.The elder son started to speak, thanking Major Willingham for his generous and noble words. Jean translated this with precision and the officer, who had no idea of Asma’s embroidery, looked startled.The son now turned to Martyn.‘I understand that you are in our area to look for precious oil and gas reserves. Please tell us more about this.’Martyn grinned. His brown face was as wrinkled as the rock formations that fascinated him.‘Well, we’ve found something interesting. I’m sure there are reserves here, but that isn’t enough. It has to be possible to extract the oil.’‘And what would that mean for our area?’‘A natural resource always means one thing: greater wealth and jobs.’ Martyn glanced at Major Willingham.‘And that would lead to greater stability,’ the OC added.‘If drilling starts here – and it would only start with the full agreement of the Afghan people – then my company would certainly be making a substantial investment in this area,’ Martyn said.The elder son smiled politely. ‘I have spent time in Saudi Arabia.’Jean saw both the major and Boss Weeks lean forward with interest. She knew what they were thinking. How had this son of a tribesman travelled so far if not with the support of some outside group?The son continued. ‘Are you suggesting we might have oil reserves like theirs?’Martyn laughed. ‘I can’t promise to turn Helmand Province into Saudi. But there could be enough oil to make a difference around here. Where there’s oil and gas, roads follow and better housing, better sanitation, improved health care . . . all the things you and your government want.’‘When did you visit Saudi?’ Boss Weeks asked.Asma could tell he badly wanted to know the answer but was trying not to sound too keen. She added a note of polite restraint as she translated the question.‘I studied at university there before returning to my homeland. With my qualifications I could have stayed in Saudi Arabia or travelled anywhere in the world, but I wanted to come back to my home and work for the good of my people.’Asma looked hard at Boss Weeks, willing him to make an appropriately cordial response.He said lamely: ‘That was jolly good of you.’‘Your action shows great commitment and love for your people and they must surely benefit greatly,’ she said. The son looked pleased. Jean nodded her approval. The two women often despaired at the diplomatic incompetence of the officers.They discussed the needs of the village and what the British Army could realistically supply. They talked about electrical generators and wells and walls around the school yard. Two old men in spotless robes brought everyone more tea. They offered a plate of round, flat savoury bread. Asma took a piece. The very smell of it, the way it sat in her hand, reminded her of her mother’s kitchen.The elder son took this opportunity to speak directly to Asma. He had piercing blue eyes and sharp features. The younger son looked plumper-faced and spoilt.‘May I ask how you, a woman of fine Afghan features and good Pashtun breeding, came to speak both our language and English so perfectly?’Asma looked down at the carpet, studying its tiny loops and intricate colours. She knew it could take a woman a year or more to make a carpet like this.‘My family left Afghanistan when I was young,’ she said. ‘And of course we spoke Pashtu at home. I spoke English at school.’She thought of that home. A grey flat made of grey concrete in a grey block under grey skies. Did it ever stop raining over their patch of east London? Was it ever anything but grey?Impulsively she told him: ‘Now I have returned to Afghanistan I do not understand why my father took us away.’He looked pleased by this.‘Where is your tribal homeland?’ he asked. But Asma knew better than to answer this question. Tribal complications ran deep and vengeance and anger could leap across generations and geography. They could even cross this boiling plain an
d somehow arrive in a wet, grey concrete flat in London.‘I should not come to your house and talk about myself,’ she said shyly, ‘when there is so much to discuss about the future of this area.’The man nodded. ‘Nevertheless, your position is an interesting one. Do you see yourself as Afghan? As English? As Pashtun?’‘What’s he saying?’ Boss Weeks asked.‘He’s talking about the school wall,’ she lied. To the tribesman she said: ‘Allah chose to offer my family refuge in Britain during difficult times and for that I thank Allah and Britain.’It was a reply she had prepared long ago for any Pashtun who asked her that difficult question. But none had before now.‘And do you really believe,’ the son pursued, ‘that by working for the British Army you are working in the best interests of the Pashtun people? There is a lot of work to be done here but an army which comes to fight can’t do that work. Or is it that after living so long in England you don’t care about the Pashtun people?’His words were confrontational but his tone was gentle.Her cheeks began to burn.‘What did he say?’ Boss Weeks was getting more impatient.At last she said: ‘He asked if the British Army would really be prepared to build a wall around the school.’‘He seems to be speaking to you about this wall with some intensity . . .’She shrugged.They debated the likelihood of a mortar attack on the school and whether a wall would really help prevent this. They learned that only a few weeks ago women and girls had been killed at a village school not far away.‘I hope it was rebuilt,’ the engineer said. ‘In the UK we support the education of women.’Asma thought of her own education in east London. That had been grey too. She had gone to the same grey, concrete place as hundreds of other teenagers in grey uniforms and the last thing on anybody’s mind had been their education. The idea that women and girls might die for the right to this education would have seemed amazing there.Jean and Major Willingham were now locked in a discussion with the head tribesman which brought all other conversation around the carpet to a halt.‘What’s he saying?’ Weeks hissed.‘They’re discussing the Taliban,’ Asma said.The tribesman said they had heard about a training base near the Helmand River. He named an area. Asma recognized the name at once from her interrogation of the two detainees.‘In fact,’ said the tribesman, ‘we have reason to believe that our brothers in this area are sheltering many fighters. And we must remember that our brothers may not have been given a choice.’‘And the focus of this activity? Exactly where is it?’ the major demanded.Jean translated this as: ‘Some indication of the exact location would be extremely interesting and helpful to our understanding of this situation, if you would be kind enough to share this information.’The tribesman looked at his elder son.‘Asad?’Asad said he wasn’t sure exactly which compound it was. He once again named the area.‘Could you be more precise?’ Major Willingham urged.But Asad shook his head.‘We would very much like to welcome you here again. By then we will perhaps have found the answer for you.’Asma had a feeling that he wanted to discuss with his family whether to disclose the compound’s location, but the OC looked pleased enough.‘That would be extremely helpful.’Asma translated: ‘We thank you for your generosity and understand that you have the interests of Afghanistan and its future and those of the Pashtun people at heart.’The tribesmen smiled and the meeting ended amicably. It seemed to Asma that the good-looking soldier, in his position by the door, had remained motionless throughout. She saw him, very quietly and unobtrusively, radio the men outside. She watched Jean grin at him as she passed and his face broke into a smile in return.When they emerged into the sunlight the Vectors were waiting. Soldiers appeared as though they had materialized from cracks in the dry walls and climbed aboard.‘No doubt about it. Someone fancies you,’ Jean muttered to Asma.‘He’s got really amazing eyes. They’re so blue I had to keep looking at the carpet in case they burned a hole in me.’Jean gave her a sideways glance. ‘His eyes look an ordinary sort of grey to me.’Asma looked confused.‘I’m not talking about that tribesman, for heaven’s sake,’ Jean said.Asma blinked.‘Duh. I mean Second Lieutenant Weeks. He just couldn’t stop staring at you. And when you were chatting away to Ol’ Blue Eyes he was getting really agitated.’‘Don’t talk daft!’‘I swear it.’‘What about you then? You kept looking at someone all through the meeting.’‘Did I? Who?’‘That soldier over by the door.’Jean giggled.‘And you gave him a sexy smile on the way out. And you were looking at him in the cookhouse the other night, too.’‘Well . . . he’s nice to look at . . .’‘Are you blushing? I reckon you are!’‘I reckon I might be too . . .’They did their best to look serious again when the officers climbed in beside them.‘Well,’ Major Willingham said as the Vectors set off through the dust. ‘Do we trust them? Or are they just trying to use the British Army to fight some local feud against whoever lives in that compound?’The engineer pulled a face.‘Whatever their motive, it’s not greed. They’re not asking for the earth, just a school wall.’‘But that elder son. He’s educated. He’s spent a few years in Saudi; he could so easily have come under the influence of . . .’Boss Weeks nodded: ‘I think his history’s highly suspicious. I found that man highly suspicious. I mean, possibly dangerous.’ Then he coloured and added: ‘Although of course I’m not used to dealing with these people.’‘Well let’s ask someone who is,’ the major said. ‘What did our interpreters make of them?’Jean said: ‘If Asad was Saudi-educated he will have come back with new ideas. That may be good, because he can handle concepts like oil exploration. And it may be bad.’‘There’s a danger,’ Asma continued, ‘that he’ll have come back wahabi – that is, with no respect for the old tribal customs. If you’re wahabi then you regard a lot of the local practices as no more than superstition. So when Arab fighters, and other insurgents, get here and stamp all over the local traditions and run amok with their weapons, he might think that’s cool. Or he might think he’s promoting Pashtun interests.’‘Very interesting,’ Major Willingham said. ‘I saw you having a conversation with the son. How dangerous do you think he is?’Jean watched her carefully. They all waited for Asma’s answer.‘Well,’ she said at last, ‘my instinct is quite strong on this one. I think we should trust this family.’
