Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  Surely God would not be angry with her for facing in the wrong direction.

  Surely He did not condone the actions of these men, even if they did it in His name.

  Surely He would not condemn her for refusing to say what she knew about her brother, her own flesh and blood, no matter what wicked things he may have done.

  Surely He would not leave her to die in this place.

  He would send someone to help her. Surely He would.

  But who in the world would ever find her here?

  *

  Will Jackson felt as if he were living in a dream, but he couldn't tell if it was a good dream or a nightmare. Everything just seemed so unreal - Five's sudden appearance in his life; the night he had spent with Kate; Faisal Ahmed. As he gazed out of the window of the chauffeur-driven car Pankhurst had arranged to take him back out of London, he decided that he wouldn't be at all surprised to wake up and find that he had imagined it all.

  He didn't want to wake up, though. He didn't want it to be a dream. For the first time in ages, he felt as if he had a purpose. It was nerve-racking, certainly. Gut-wrenching, even. But somehow it felt right.

  Will felt weird as he saw RAF Credenhill, 22 SAS Regiment's Hereford headquarters, approach. He hadn't seen the high fences with huge rolls of wicked-looking barbed wire perched on top of them for two years; he hadn't walked into one of the cavernous hangars that housed each of the Regiment's squadrons; but before that this unfriendlyseeming place had been a home from home. Will had felt comfortable among its training grounds and mess rooms, just like other people feel comfortable in their own gardens. He liked it. Now, though, he didn't relish the idea of walking down its corridors again; he didn't relish the idea of the looks the boys would give him. No doubt rumours had circulated about him since he left the Regiment and tongues would wag even more enthusiastically about his return.

  The car pulled up at the main gates. Four soldiers stood guard, each carrying a machine gun and an unsmiling expression. The driver, who had not spoken a word to Will all the way from London, wound down his window. 'Will Jackson for Lieutenant Colonel Elliott,' he told the MOD policeman who came to the car to enquire their business.

  The MOD policeman looked to the back of the car and his eyes widened slightly when he saw Will. Will recognised him vaguely - a face from the past that he couldn't put a name to. 'Do you have some identification?' the MOD policeman asked.

  Will handed over the MOD pass that Pankhurst had supplied him with. The MOD policeman took it, stepped back from the car, spoke into a radio handset and within seconds the gates were open and the car was driving through.

  Will had been relieved to hear that Half Colonel Steve Elliott was still CO at Credenhill. They went back a long time - indeed it was Elliott who had first selected Will for the ranks of the 1st Royal Tank Regiment when he was a bright-eyed young squaddie. Back then, Will had thought Elliott was little more than a psychopath; but then that was what most potential recruits thought of their commanding officers when they were undergoing SAS training. When Will had been the first to complete the endurance stage of the final phase of his training - a forty-mile hike across the Brecon Beacons with full pack and rifle - he had expected a few words of congratulation. But that wasn't Elliott's style. 'Don't make the mistake of assuming the worst is over, Jackson,' he had informed the exhausted recruit in front of his new colleagues. 'A gentle walk in the hills isn't what you can expect on covert ops.'

  'No, sir,' Will had replied immediately.

  As time went on, though, Jackson had proved himself to Elliott. More than proved himself, in fact. He had risen through the ranks, and had come to respect and appreciate Elliott's blunt, no-nonsense style of talking. There was no room for bullshit when people's lives depended on you. And after Will's family died, Steve Elliott had been the man who stood by him. 'Don't leave the Regiment, Will,' he had said. 'You'll regret it. Take time out - as much as you like. But don't leave. Don't let the fight go out of you.'

  Will had ignored his advice. Now and then in the few months that had followed, Elliott's words had come back to haunt him. But as time passed and a return to the military became less and less feasible, so Will had stopped worrying that his respected commander had been right. About a year ago, Elliott had dropped him a line, inviting him to get in touch. The invitation had gone unanswered.

  The car trundled to a halt in a small car park just in front of the main HQ building.

  'Thanks for the lift.'

  'Yes, sir,' the chauffeur replied. He stepped out of the car, opened Will's door and stood politely by as he climbed out. Will took a deep breath, nodded to the driver, then strode towards the main building.

  A uniformed officer whom Will didn't recognise was at the desk.

  'I'm here to see Lieutenant Colonel Elliott,' he said. 'My name's Will Jackson.'

  That look again. The soldier clearly recognised his name. Will knew what Regiment gossip was like - he'd lay money on every soldier in the base knowing within the hour that he had arrived.

  'I'll tell him you're here,' the soldier replied.

  Steve Elliott was a big man - big even compared to the well-built SAS soldiers who surrounded him every day. He wore camouflage trousers and shirt, and Will had to think hard to remember if he had ever seen the man wear anything else. Elliott's nose had been broken in a couple of places and there was an ugly red scar peeping above the top of his shirt and up his neck. No one knew where he had received it, but it was fairly widely known that Elliott had been taken captive and tortured in western Iraq in 1991.Will had never heard him speak of his experience, but then few men ever did talk about things like that. His hair was a steely grey now and his forehead showed the creases of a lifetime's frowning. But Elliott's eyes were smiling as he approached Will and shook his hand.

  'How are you, Will?' he asked, warmly.

  Will shrugged, his eyes flickering over to the soldier at the desk, who was watching them with obvious curiosity. 'Is there somewhere we can talk, boss?'

  'Of course,' Elliott nodded. 'My office. Come on.'

  They walked along the corridor in silence until they came to a door with Elliott's name on it. He held it open. 'Come on in, Will.'

  Steve Elliott's office was very familiar to Will. He'd lost count of the number of unofficial debriefs that had taken place here. It was a typical military office - sparse, cold even. On the wall was an old picture of Elliott in the days when he was a squadron leader: his nose wasn't broken then and he looked somehow more innocent, less ravaged by the stress of the job and the passing years. But it was clearly the same man, the same steely resolve in his eyes.

  Elliott took a seat behind his desk - a plain table with a telephone and a few papers scattered over it - while Will sat in the seat opposite.

  'Can I get you something?' Elliott asked. 'A coffee -'

  'Nothing. Thanks,' Will replied. 'Look, boss, I know you tried to get in contact with me a while ago. I'm sorry I -'.

  Elliott held up his hand. 'Nothing to apologise for, Will,' he said briskly, and Will nodded in gratitude. 'Christ only knows what you must have been going through,' the commander continued. 'Everyone here was more shocked than I can tell you. You expect to lose people when you're out on ops, but -' His voice trailed off. Will had the impression that Elliott knew he was saying nothing that hadn't gone through Will's own mind a million times.

  'Thank you, sir,' he said quietly.

  They sat in silence for a moment.

  'I'm surprised to see you here,' Elliott said finally.

  'Not as surprised as I am to be here.'

  'Pankhurst told me I'm to give you anything you need and that transport was being arranged to the NATO base in Kandahar. But he didn't tell me much else. Care to elaborate on your away break to the Stan?'

  Will looked at his old friend. Elliott was smiling at him, leaning back comfortably in his chair. He looked relaxed, but Will could sense his intrigue, sense that he was desperate to find out what was going on.
But as he sat there, Lowther Pankhurst's words rang in his head: We can't afford to trust anyone. He might not like the guy, but when the Director General of MI5 tells you to be suspicious, you'd better be suspicious.

  'Sorry, boss,' he said calmly. 'I'm afraid I can't tell you that.'

  Elliott's eyes narrowed slightly. 'We go back a long way, Will. I'd like to think we're friends. But I have to tell you this: it's a brave soldier who keeps his CO in the dark.'

  The veiled threat hung there between them. Elliott clearly did not like the fact that Pankhurst had not told him nearly as much as he would have expected.

  'I'm sorry, boss,' Will replied. 'I'm not a soldier. Not any more.'

  'But you still think of yourself as one, Will. Why else would you still be calling me "boss"?'

  'Old habits die hard, I guess.'

  Elliott shrugged. 'Rumours that you're back at Credenhill will be buzzing around already, Will,' he pressed on. 'You're quite a celebrity around here, you know. Even now. If word gets out that you're just a puppet for Five, things could get nasty for you.'

  Will couldn't tell from Elliott's demeanour if that was a threat or a warning. Either way, he knew his response had to be the same. 'I won't be around long enough for that to make any difference to me,' he said firmly. 'I'm sorry, boss, but I'm past caring about Credenhill gossip. I'm here to put together a team. I can't tell you what we're doing, not until the operation is over. Probably not even then.'

  'All right, Will,' Elliott conceded. 'I have my orders from Five. They tell me you need three men.'

  Will nodded. 'We'll be going cross-country into southern Afghanistan. It's going to be snowing and if things go as they should we'll have one hostage who won't be in very good shape, so I need at least one person well trained in cold-weather survival. If any of them have had active service in Afghanistan, so much the better. Sharpshooters, well versed in escape and evasion. I need the best, boss.'

  Elliott pressed his fingers together and looked at his former employee as though sizing him up.

  'All right, Will,' he said finally. 'The lads we've selected will fit the bill. But maybe one day you'll let me know what this is all about.' He picked up the phone on his desk and dialled a short number. 'Let Major Adams know we're ready for him,' he told whoever was at the other end. 'We'll be there in a few minutes.' He replaced the phone on to its cradle.

  'Thank you,' Will said, quietly.

  Elliott shrugged and an awkward silence fell on the room. Eventually the Half Colonel spoke. 'Listen, Will,' he said. 'I'm not trying to get you to tell me what you're doing, but if you're planning on heading south from Kandahar, you need to be careful. I know you've had experience in Afghanistan; I know you understand how fucked up that place is. But things are different there now. More dangerous, especially in the south. I'm sure you're aware that there are Taliban factions regrouping down there. They're well armed and, frankly, they're desperate. I've lost more men on covert ops in Afghanistan in the last eighteen months than I'd care to count.'

  Will listened carefully - he knew Elliott didn't give warnings lightly.

  'I've attended enough Regiment funerals this year, Will. Let's not have any more just before Christmas, eh?'

  'I don't want funerals any more than you do, boss.'

  'No,' Elliott said. 'I know. They said the operation was urgent and that you'd want to get to Afghanistan as soon as possible. When are you planning on leaving?'

  Will looked momentarily down to the floor, then fixed Elliott with a determined stare.

  'Transport's arranged for tonight,' he said. 'We don't have any time to lose.'

  SIX

  She had fallen asleep thinking of her brother. Thinking of the last time she had seen him, when his face had been so full of apprehension, his voice so full of urgency. 'You must flee, Latifa,' he had said. 'We must both flee. They have found out about me. It is only a matter of time before they come—'

  And now, outside, the sun had set and all was dark, but night and day had no meaning to her in this place; they were just arbitrary markers that punctuated her suffering at regular intervals. She had been asleep for three hours - about the longest she ever managed before she was woken up by the cold or by her aching body. But it was neither of those things that roused her now. It was the sound of the door being unlocked - the sound that haunted her every living moment. She knew that whenever someone came through the door, something unpleasant was about to happen.

  She was confused and disorientated in the dark, but gradually she became aware that there were men in the hut with her. Three, maybe four. As she stared around in fear through the veil of her burka, a light appeared at the door. Her eyes squinted with momentary pain as she saw the man with the scarred face in the doorway holding a flaming torch.

  'Hold her down,' he said harshly.

  Suddenly there were firm hands on her limbs. She screamed once, but then she found herself unable to make another sound as terror froze her throat. There were definitely four men holding her - she realised that as she was pressed firmly on to the hard earth. She tried to struggle, but the men were too strong.

  Looking up she saw the one with the torch standing over her. 'Where is he?' he asked calmly.

  'I have told you a thousand times,' she spat, 'I don't know!' Once more she tried to struggle; once more she was held down.

  The man with the torch knelt beside her. He removed the thin shoes she was wearing, then deliberately lowered the burning flame and touched it to the sole of her right foot. She screamed in agony as he held it there for a number of seconds. When he removed it she was whimpering breathlessly, but she screamed a second time when he touched the torch to her other foot.

  When he had finished, he spoke a single word to the other men and they released her, but by now she was too agonised and frightened to do anything other than curl up and sob.

  Wordlessly, the men filed out of the hut. They closed the door behind them and, of course, locked it before walking away.

  *

  'You'd better give me the low-down on these guys,' Will told the CO as they walked along the corridors of Credenhill HQ towards the briefing room.

  Elliott nodded. 'RWW, all three of them,' he said.

  'Good,' Will grunted. RWW - the Revolutionary Warfare Wing, or the Increment to anyone in the know. A secretive group of crack troops, taken from the SAS and the SBS, deployed around the world to train terrorists - or 'freedom fighters,' as the British government preferred to think of them - and carry out hypersensitive, top-secret operations. The Afghan mujahideen, the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia and any number of other bands of guerrilla fighters had been turned into highly effective fighting forces thanks to the skills of the RWW.The Revolutionary Warfare Wing was also used to carrying out politically sensitive operations that would always be officially denied - a roundabout way of saying assassinations. When the head of MI6 had recently gone on the record saying that to his knowledge none of his people had ever carried out an assassination, he'd been telling the truth, because the Increment did their dirty work for them. These guys got deployed all over the world: Iraq, Afghanistan, South America. You name it, if it was a hot spot, the RWW would put in an appearance and its men were among the best the Regiment could provide.

  There were other good reasons, though, for drawing his talent from the RWW and he suspected that Pankhurst had specifically asked for them. These soldiers would have undergone the most rigorous vetting of anyone in the British military. Their bank accounts would have been watched; their phones would have been tapped; Will had even heard that there was a policy of entrapment - putting temptation in the way of these guys or trying to trick them into revealing sensitive information to a supposed stranger who was really working for the military. If Pankhurst was worried about a leak, then giving Will a team from the RWW was a neat way of lessening the risk - they were as close to watertight as you could get.