“It’s by the main gate, isn’t it?” I asked, slightly too loud.
“Um yeah, it’s this way,” he answered.
He led the way and we walked in silence for a minute or two. I caught no hint of our pursuers. They were good, whoever they were.
“You look beautiful,” said Sanders as we passed a row of silent tanks.
“Well, thanks for the clothes and stuff,” I said, lamely.
“You’re welcome. You wear them well.”
For the love of Mike, Sanders, you dope.
We ambled on a bit more, then I had an idea. If I pulled him into an embrace the gunmen would know I was up to something. But if he pulled me close they wouldn’t be sure, and I could whisper in his ear.
“Well,” I said, as if suddenly shy, “I’m only wearing them for you.” I moved my hand along his forearm and laced my fingers through his. He looked down at me, surprised, as I stroked his thumb gently with my index finger.
“I’m honoured,” he said, smiling but a little awkward.
“You should be. It’s not every day I make such an effort.” Oh this was painful. I was spouting bad dialogue from a Meg Ryan movie.
“You don’t need to make an effort, Jane.” Now he was at it.
I moved fractionally closer, so our thighs brushed together as we walked.
“Look, I can’t keep calling you Sanders. What’s your proper name?”
“Neil.”
“Neil, I want to make an effort for you. Last night was... special.”
“That’s a relief. It’s been a while. I was, um, married. Y’know, before. My Chrissie.”
No, this is supposed to be a seduction, you twit. Don’t get drunk and maudlin.
“Kiss me,” I whispered urgently as we walked around a corner into the road that led to the medical centre. He kept walking. He hadn’t heard me. Oh, fuck this. I never was much of a femme fatale. I dug my fingernail into his palm, hard, and he stopped, baffled.
“Kiss me,” I whispered again. Finally the great lunk wrapped me in his arms and stuck his tongue down my throat. We were lucky – the men following us must have thought he’d done it on the spur of the moment. They held their fire. Sanders tasted of Grolsch and Marlboro, which brought back hazy memories of another life.
As soon as I was able, I broke the liplock and hugged him hard. Then I whispered in his ear: “Two men. Silencers. Bushes. Main gate.” He stiffened and then relaxed, on duty again. He disengaged, wrapped his arm around my waist, and we continued walking. He didn’t seem to be looking around, but I was sure he was trying to get a bead on our stalkers.
“Y’know, Jane, you’re a piece of work,” he said, slightly too loud. His acting was pitiful, I only hoped the darkness would compensate.
“Really?”
“Yeah. Once you turned the corner, after you left the school, I really thought you’d fall in with a bad lot.”
Ah-ha, I thought, so that’s why he was never recruited by MI5. I rolled my eyes.
“Yes, but I had you to keep me on the straight and narrow, didn’t I?” I improvised. Then, as we turned the corner on to the road that led to the main gate, I fell to my left, rolling off the pavement and on to the grass verge. Sanders turned and ran to his right. I heard the soft phutt phutt of a silenced automatic, and saw a tiny muzzle flare from the spot Sanders was running towards (“rush a gun, flee a knife” said Cooper, in my head). He held out his hand as he ran, smashing his lager bottle on a lamppost and then bringing it up to use as a weapon. The gun fired once more, then Sanders vanished into the undergrowth, which rustled and shook.
I heard a cry of “stitch this!” and a grunt.
I leapt to my feet and ran for the main gate, forgetting that I was wearing heels. My right ankle went from under me and I sprawled on to the concrete, scraping my knees and hands. I reached down to undo the straps and as I did so the other Yank was on me, straddling me, rolling me over on to my back and bringing his knife down to my chest. I grabbed his descending arm with my right hand as my left continued to fumble with the strap on my shoe and pulled, releasing the catch. Then I grabbed the sole, brought my arm up and plunged the heel of my shoe into my attacker’s ear as hard as I could.
He toppled slowly to his right, falling into the road. I got up, reached down, and pulled the shoe. It came out with a wet sucking sound. Waste of a perfectly good pair of shoes.
The camp was quiet, no-one aware of the struggle that had taken place. I needed to raise the alarm. I looked over my shoulder, and saw that the bushes Sanders had run into were still and silent. I got my bearings – I was right outside the medical centre. There were bound to be people in there, I was about to run and start banging on the door when I felt a hand on my shoulder. I yelped and spun around, swinging my shoe as a weapon. Sanders caught it in his great paw and I sighed.
“Sorry,” I gasped.
He shook his head as if to say it’s nothing. His other hand was holding his side, and I could see a red stain spreading through his fingers.
“You’ve been shot,” I exclaimed. “Let’s get you inside.” I wrapped my arm around his waist and tried to drag him towards the medical centre, but he resisted.
“No,” he said firmly. “It’s just a flesh wound. First we search the body and find out who these guys are and how they got in here.”
He shrugged my arm away and knelt down beside the body, grunting as he did so from the pain of his wound. I knelt down beside him.
“They’re both Americans and they parachuted in,” I said.
He looked up at me sharply. “You sure?” I nodded.
He reached down and pulled open the dead man’s jacket, searching his pockets. His hand was on the man’s chest when he mumbled “oh fuck” and ripped open his undershirt. Strapped to the man’s bare flesh was a little metallic gizmo.
“What’s that?” I asked, but Sanders was already up and running for the main gate. I pelted after him.
“Life sensor,” he yelled back to me as he ran. “It means whoever sent them knows they’re...” His final word was lost in the scream of an approaching missile. We were caught in the shockwave of an enormous explosion, which picked us both up and flung us backwards on to the hard tarmac, knocking the air out of us and singing our eyebrows. The main gate and the guard post beside it vanished in a huge fireball and I felt the scorching air blast across me and cook my lungs as I gasped for air.
The perimeter was breached. Operation Motherland was under attack.
My senses were scrambled. I didn’t know which way was up, my eyes couldn’t focus, my ears were ringing and I felt like I was going to be sick. As I tried to clear my head I felt the world lurch and start bouncing. It took me a moment to realise that Sanders had actually picked me up, slung me under his arm, and was running away with me. I heard sharp cracks all round us, which must have been gunshots, but they sounded distant and dull. Then I landed on soft grass with a thud and felt large hands running themselves up and down my body. Odd time to cop a feel, I thought, feeling disconnected and out of body. Then he slapped my face and the world got sharp, hot and focused.
“Oi!” I shouted, and slapped him back.
“You’re not hit.” He was leaning over me, black smears on his face, his carefully combed hair wild and frizzy. “Can you run?”
I nodded. “Come on then.” And he was off. I shook my head, rose to my feet with a groan of protest, and staggered after him. Even after being shot and blown up he was making good speed. But he was running away from the sounds of gunfire and explosions. Shouldn’t he be in the thick of the fighting? We ran through the base, which was suddenly full of shouted orders and running men, all heading in the opposite direction. Sanders grabbed one man as he ran past and relieved him of his weapons, sending him back to get re-equipped. I caught up with him and he handed me a sidearm.
“What the hell are we doing?” I asked, shouting to be heard over the sirens that were now ringing out. “What’s going on?”
“In situati
ons like this, I’ve got standing orders. Now come on.” And he was off again, his wound not even meriting a wince. He wasn’t even breathing hard as he ran past the mustering troops. I was gasping for air and trying to ignore the stitch in my side.
“But don’t you want to know what’s happening?” I bellowed as I chased after him.
“I’m a soldier, Kate... sorry, Jane. I never know what’s bloody going on. I just do what I’m told.”
It seemed pointless to argue, but I couldn’t really wrap my head around it. I never followed orders, never did what anyone told me without being given an explanation first, always made sure I knew the big picture before making a decision. But I was a free agent, always had been. Sanders was a soldier, conditioned and trained to be a cog in a machine. He didn’t need to know the whys and wherefores, he just did as he was told, immediately, without question, confident that by following orders he was doing the right thing. I couldn’t imagine allowing anyone to have that control over me, or allowing myself to trust someone so much that I’d take their word for anything without being given proofs and reasons.
That said, I was running after him, so I suppose I trusted him that much. I really wanted to be running back to the medical centre. Rowles and Caroline were there, and they were my responsibility. But I knew the fight would already be at their front door, and it would be suicide to head back there now. I just had to hope they’d be safe. After all, no-one would attack a hospital. Would they? I told myself not to worry about it. Rowles could look after himself and Caroline, and as soon as I was able I’d be back for them. For now, I kept following Sanders, hoping he had a plan.
We ran across the base to a barracks that sat at the heart of the compound. It was a low building, brick built, with two guards on the door, one of whom greeted Sanders.
“Lieutenant,” he said, businesslike in the face of sudden chaos. “What’s going on?”
“He in there?” asked Sanders as he slowed and stopped.
“Yeah.”
“Okay, stay here, no-one comes past. Understand?”
“Sir!”
“Come on,” he said to me, and I followed him through the doors and into the barracks.
We came to a door and Sanders knocked and entered.
It was a simple bedroom, nothing too fancy. A single bed, a desk, a cupboard and a wardrobe. A bookcase full of Alex Rider, Young James Bond and Robert Muchamore. There were posters, too, of the Pussycat Dolls and Slipknot.
Kneeling on the bed was a young boy, fourteen or thereabouts, oblivious to our presence, listening to a CD player with his headphones on, the volume so loud it was drowning out all noise. His face was ravaged by acne, his hair was greasy and unkempt, and he was wanking over a porn mag. He looked up in horrified alarm as Sanders tapped him lightly on the shoulder.
“What the...?” spluttered the boy, his face turning red as he realised he was not alone. He pulled his headphones off and dragged the quilt over his erection.
“You need to get dressed and come with me right now,” said Sanders.
“What do you mean? What’s going on?” the boy whined, spluttering in embarrassment and fear.
“The base is under attack. We need to get you to the safe house. Get dressed. Quickly, Your Majesty.”
The boy didn’t move, he just stared at Sanders and nodded his head sideways at me, indicating that Sanders should remove me. I grabbed Sanders’ arm and pulled him towards the door.
“We’ll, um, wait outside,” I said, trying to keep a straight face. “Sire,” I added, and snigered as Sanders pulled me out the door and slammed it shut.
“That’s him?” I giggled. “That’s the king?”
But Sanders wasn’t laughing. His face was white and he was leaning against the wall. I glanced down and saw that the blood from the wound in his side had soaked his clothes right down to his knees. Suddenly things didn’t seem quite so amusing.
“I need to get you stitched up.”
“No time,” he said, forcing himself to stand upright. “We need to get the king to safety.”
“I’m the doctor,” I said firmly. “Is there a med kit or anything in this building?”
He glared at me and then reluctantly said: “Try the kitchen.”
I ran off down the corridor, looking in all the rooms until I found a small kitchen with a fridge, microwave and a Baby Belling cooker. There was a red plastic med kit on the wall, so I pulled it open and rummaged inside. I pulled out sterile dressing, elastoplast, alcohol and a needle and thread, then I ran back to Sanders, dragged him into the room opposite the king’s and set to work.
“So this is your job, huh?” I asked as I worked. “You look after the king?”
“Yeah. Ow!”
“Big baby.”
The bullet had gone clean through him, just missing a kidney, but I couldn’t be sure whether his guts were punctured or not. I thought they probably were, and if so he’d need proper surgery sooner rather than later or there’d be a great risk of infection. In the meantime I did the best I could. I sterilised the wound, stitched him up, slapped a dressing over it and gave him a huge dose of painkillers.
“I train him, keep him safe,” explained my patient. “I don’t get out much. They only let me come to the school to get you because I begged and it seemed like a milk run. If the perimeter is ever breached, I’m to get him to a safe house we’ve set up about ten miles away. He’s my only priority.”
“But shouldn’t he have, like, a whole team of men guarding him?”
“Just me. That’s the best way. Keep it low profile, don’t draw attention to ourselves. Chances are that whoever is attacking us doesn’t even know he exists. We’ve not exactly gone public with him yet. He’s not ready.”
“He seemed to have things well in hand a moment ago.”
“Jesus, Jane,” he said, exasperated. “He’s fourteen, all right? Cut him some slack. You know what teenagers are like.”
“Of course I do. I run a school, remember.”
“He’s all right, he’s a good kid.”
“As long as he doesn’t expect me to curtsey, I’m sure we’ll get along fine.”
Sanders and I grabbed uniforms from the cupboard and quickly changed into combats. My uniform was ridiculously oversized, and the only way I could get the boots to fit me was to wear four pairs of socks, but at least it was better than my party dress and heels. All the time we could hear the sounds of battle outside, steadily getting closer. There were explosions, constant gunfire, the rumbling of tanks and, just as we finished getting ready, the roar of a fighter jet swooping low overhead, and the whooshing sound of a missile being released. Sanders was agog.
“F-16?” he said, incredulously. “We really have to go.”
At that moment the door to the king’s room opened and he stepped out. He was dressed head to toe in black and his face was smeared with boot polish. He handed the tin to Sanders and as we blacked up, he interrogated us.
“Attackers?”
“Americans,” I answered. “Trained soldiers, I think.”
“And you are?” His air of authority was impressive, but I thought it was an act. I’d seen a fifteen-year-old boy really take control, and there was a quality of certainty that Lee possessed that the king lacked. He was trying hard, though, I gave him that. And it must have been difficult for him to try and regain any dignity in front of me after what I’d just witnessed.
“Jane Crowther, I run a boys’ school, Your Majesty.”
“She’s with me, Jack,” said Sanders, passing the boot polish to me and checking his SA80.
“Good enough for me, and please call me Jack, Miss Crowther,” said the boy, drawing his sidearm. “Shall we go?”
“Both of you follow me,” said Sanders. “Stay low, we keep to the shadows, we don’t engage the enemy unless forced to. We make straight for the exfil and leave. Is that clear?”
The king and I both nodded. (No, I needed to stop thinking of him as the king. It was ridiculous and it
made me think of Elvis. I would follow Sanders’ example and call him Jack.)
“All right then,” said Sanders. “Come on.”
Without another word, we ran out into a battlefield.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
I ALWAYS SEEM to be running away from fights.
The last time I was in a proper pitched battle – on the day St Mark’s was blown sky-high – I grabbed a gun and ran like hell. In my defence, I was going to locate the girls who were in my care, and we did come back later and save the day. But my experience of being in a proper battle was of running as fast as I possibly could in the opposite direction. As we ran out of the barracks I was reminded of why that had seemed such a good idea last time.
The two men guarding the door were still there, and we all stood for a moment, getting our bearings and identifying where the heaviest fighting seemed to be.
The night sky was bright with orange flames and the blinding flashes of explosions. The noise was deafening, like a hundred fireworks displays going off at once all around us. The fighting, which had begun at the main gate, had moved quickly, and I could see a group of British soldiers using the buildings in front of us as cover. They were firing around the corners at the attacking forces.
One man readied a fearsome looking missile launcher, which he hoisted on his shoulder, and then he ran out between the buildings, straight into the line of fire. He knelt down and took careful aim at what I presumed must be a tank. It was an act of such bravery and madness that I stood riveted to the spot, trying to understand what would make someone risk their lives so foolishly. The only answer was training and necessity. It was the kind of thing that would be unthinkable in a skirmish, but in the heat of war it was almost commonplace. This was true soldiering. It was awe inspiring, actually. And doomed.
A swarm of bullets thudded into the soldier, and he toppled backwards, arms flailing. The rocket launcher flipped over his fragmenting head, still held in his right hand, until it was pointed straight at us. Then his dying fingers twitched and the rocket screamed free of its housing.
Someone must have shouted for us to run. We scattered and kept moving. Sanders, Jack and I ran one way; the two squaddies ran the other. They drew the short straw. The rocket slammed into the far corner of the barracks, hitting an oil tank used for heating. I was much closer to this explosion than I had been to the one at the main gate and it was stronger than anything I’d ever felt before. I lost consciousness in mid-air.
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