Firefight

by Chris Ryan

  'How much did he take?' Will asked.

  'No one knows. Enough to get him a fucking court martial, though. Shame - quite liked the lad myself. Bit of a wanker, but if I had a problem keeping the company of wankers, I wouldn't be here, would I?'

  The others smiled and the conversation moved on. Will listened to them as they discussed the latest Hereford gossip and the stories they'd heard on the news - anything apart from the job in hand. But when there was a lull in the conversation, Will knew they would be mentally preparing themselves, going through the salient details of the mission in their heads. Anderson, Drew and Kennedy showed no signs of nerves - just a quiet, determined detachment, a confidence that they would be able to get the job done.

  Deep down, Will wished he could share in that confidence. Forty-eight hours ago he had been a nobody, just some waster in the pub filling his time with whatever best numbed his grief on that particular day. Now he felt he had a purpose and he started feeling the hot anticipation that always used to surge through him before a mission. It was tempered, though, by an uneasiness, a self-doubt. Steve Elliott had been brutal in his assessment that Will might not be up to the job, yet he hadn't said anything Will didn't feel deep down. But the confidence of the others was reassuring.

  He tried to put those doubts from his mind and focus on the task ahead.

  There was a lull in the conversation. Will turned to Anderson. 'You've got a kid, right?' he said.

  Anderson looked surprised that Will should have brought it up. 'Yeah,' he said, warily.

  'How old?'

  'Nearly three.'

  'Looking forward to Christmas, I'll bet.'

  Anderson smiled the smile of an indulgent parent. 'Yeah,'

  he said quietly. 'She is.'

  Will nodded and for a moment an image of his own daughter flitted through his head. 'We're going to make sure you're back for her.'

  The three other men stared at him in mild astonishment and Will felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his face. What the hell had made him say that? He knew full well that that kind of talk before an operation was strictly out of bounds. These guys didn't even want to entertain the notion of failure and Will knew that Anderson had not even considered the idea that he wouldn't be back home for Christmas.

  It wasn't that they were blasé, it was just that they knew that full confidence in their own training and ability was their best friend.

  Kennedy broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. 'You said you'd give us the name of the target once we left Hereford,' he reminded Will.

  Will sniffed. 'Her name is Latifa Ahmed.'

  Surprise registered on Kennedy's face. 'Her name? It's a woman?'

  'That's right,' Will said, flatly.

  'Easy, tiger,' Drew said to Kennedy with a smile. He looked over at Will. 'Our Nathan's got a bit of a reputation,' he said. 'Pulled pigs in fifteen countries at last count, or was it sixteen?'

  'Seventeen, actually,' grinned Kennedy, and Will was relieved that his fuck-up of a moment ago seemed to have been forgotten.

  'She'll slow us down,' Anderson noted more soberly. It clearly wasn't a complaint; just an observation.

  'Probably,' Will agreed. 'And she's being held captive by Taliban extremists, which means she won't be in the best of health. But from what I know about her, she's pretty tough. And she'll want to get away from that place as much as us.'

  'You're under instructions from Five, right?' Drew piped up.

  'That's right.'

  'So what do they want with her?'

  Will couldn't say too much, but he knew that if the unit thought he was keeping too much from them, it might engender bad feeling. 'She has information about a possible terrorist strike against London,' he said evasively, and the three of them seemed to accept that.

  'Fucking ragheads,' Kennedy murmured, and the minibus continued to speed down the motorway.

  Night started to fall and by the time they reached Brize Norton it was pitch black. Word of their arrival had clearly preceded them and the minibus was allowed to drive straight through and wait at the side of the runway. They arrived just in time to see the lights of the Galaxy emerge through the clouds in the distance. It was an impressive sight as it roared in to land, the engines of this massive transport plane filling the air all around, making it impossible for them to shout at each other, let alone speak. Will had been in enough of these aircraft - and planes like it - in the past, but he was always slightly taken aback by the sheer size of them when seen close up. The Galaxy had a wingspan of almost seventy metres and housed a cargo department nearly forty metres long. As soon as it came to a halt, the engines whirred to a silence and a fleet of refuelling vehicles drove up to it to start replenishing its tanks, while Drew and Kennedy flung open the back doors of the minibus and carried the weapons case out on to the tarmac.

  A uniformed man descended from the cockpit of the plane. He walked briskly up to the unit and gave them all a cursory nod. 'You're our passengers, I take it?' he shouted in an American accent.

  'That's us,' Will replied. 'How long before we're airborne?'

  The pilot looked back over his shoulder. 'As soon as we're refuelled.'

  'Do you have any passengers other than crew?'

  The pilot shook his head. 'No,' he replied. 'Just cargo. There's seating on the top deck.'

  Will nodded, pleased that the pilot hadn't seen fit to ask them who they were or what they were doing. It was often the way in situations like this. Clearly someone had told the yanks not to ask too many questions. Drew and Kennedy picked up the weapons stash once more, and the four of them strode across the tarmac to the steps which led into the aircraft.

  The Galaxy had two decks. The steps took them on to the lower one, which was packed full of equipment. Most of it was on enormous pallets, covered with plastic sheeting and held in place by cargo nets. It was impossible to tell what was on those pallets, but Will knew it could be anything from weapons to ammunition to food rations or clothes. At one end of the cargo deck he saw two military vehicles - five-ton trucks, they looked like - and a couple of loadies were milling around them, checking they were secure. At the cockpit end of the cargo deck was a flight of metal stairs. Will and his men headed straight for these and carried their weapons case on to the upper level.

  It was deserted. There was seating for perhaps seventy people and the chairs faced towards the rear of the aircraft rather than the front. They all took seats in the front row, but spaced themselves out so that they had a couple of seats on either side of each other, then strapped themselves in.

  Around them, the noise of the engines started to get louder. Another man appeared - the flight lieutenant. 'Takeoff in two minutes, guys,' he told them, before walking back to take his place up front.

  The engines were screaming now and Will felt the aircraft shudder into movement. The lights on the deck dimmed and within a minute the plane was speeding down the runway and was airborne.

  Will took a deep breath. He hadn't left British soil for more than two years. It seemed so surreal doing it now under these circumstances.

  They stayed strapped in as the aircraft climbed steeply through the clouds; only when it started to level did Will unbuckle his seatbelt. The scream of the engines had subsided a little now, but it was still loud - Will had forgotten how noisy these military transport aircraft could be.

  'I'm fucking starving,' he heard Kennedy say from a couple of seats away. The others grunted in agreement. Ahead of them, at the back of the plane, a grey metal microwave oven was fitted into the wall. Next to it was a cold cabinet, which Kennedy opened. He pulled out a cardboard container of frozen army rations, then blitzed it in the microwave. The smell of the starchy food hit Will's nostrils and it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since his early breakfast in the café near Kate's house. He was hungry, he realised, and when Kennedy had removed his food from the microwave, Will went to get some of his own.

  The army rations were plain, but hot and welcome. Wi
ll ate three of the little boxes of food - beef stew with dumplings, baked beans with sausage and a chocolate sponge with gloopy chocolate sauce - before his hunger was satisfied and the others also wolfed the rations down enthusiastically.

  'We should get some sleep,' he told the others, and they all nodded. They delved into their rucksacks, each taking out a strong string hammock, which they hung from the side of the plane. Anderson came round with a small cardboard box of pills.

  'I got these from the med centre before we left,' he announced, handing a tablet to each of them. Will didn't need to ask what it was - taking a sleeping pill was pretty standard procedure before a long flight and these were specially designed to ensure that you got a few hours of well-needed shut-eye, without the risk of waking up feeling drowsy. He put one on his tongue, felt the acrid taste in his mouth and swallowed it. Then, without another word, he climbed into his hammock.

  It was strangely comfortable lying there in mid-air and the dirty, mechanical noise of the plane's engines started to become hypnotic. There was a small window by his head and as he lay there he looked out into the blackness, watching the light at the tip of the wing flashing on and off.

  If a military man stops his career before the time is right, he risks wasting away into nothing. As drowsiness fell upon him, Will heard Pankhurst's comment echoing in his head. He hated admitting it to himself, but the Director General was right. Will had been wasting away in Hereford, but it had taken this to make him realise it. He realised something else, too. Dangerous though it was, he was looking forward to Afghanistan.

  This was what he had been trained to do.

  This was what he was meant to do.

  And it was good to be doing it again.

  With those thoughts going round his head and with sound of the aircraft's engines filling his ears, Will Jackson fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  SEVEN

  When he awoke, his ears were popping. The Galaxy was losing height. Will looked at his watch. 2 a.m., UK time. He did a quick calculation - that would make it 6.30 a.m. in Kandahar. Sure enough, as he looked out of the window, he saw that the blackness of the night was giving way to a glimmer of morning light.

  Around him the others had already woken and were packing their hammocks back into their rucksacks. No one was speaking - there was no banter, no small talk. Everyone seemed businesslike and efficient. Will hauled himself from his own hammock and started getting his things together.

  The flight lieutenant appeared again. 'Ten minutes till landing,' he announced, and the four of them strapped themselves in once more.

  Kandahar Airport, Will knew from past experience, was much easier to land at by night. During the hours of sunlight, it tended to merge into the surrounding countryside, whereas when it was dark, the two-mile runway was lit up like a Christmas tree. When he felt the wheels of the Galaxy touch ground, it was a strange sensation. No matter how used you were to flying, there was always a vague sense of relief when the aircraft touched down; but today it was tempered with a heightened sense of anticipation. Up until now there had been a sense of unreality about this whole thing, but the moment he knew he was on Afghan soil, it hit him that there was no turning back. He just had to get on with the job in hand.

  Kandahar Airport was a huge, sprawling space. Stuck in the middle of one of the most inhospitable regions of this inhospitable country it was not only a civilian airfield, but home to troops from all over the world. Pankhurst had explained to Will that the NATO-led International Security Assisted Force were based here, but he knew from his own past that it was also home to the RAF's Harrier GR7 detachment as well as the detachments of AH-64 Apache attack helicopters, CH-47 Chinook support helicopters and Lynx utility helicopters. Soldiers from America, Canada, Britain and, of course, Afghanistan worked side by side out of this airport, so it was no surprise, as they walked down on to the tarmac, to see how busy the place was, even at this early hour in the driving snow, which reduced visibility to only a few metres. Voices were shouting above the noise of the aircraft engines; a Harrier screamed down to land on the runway, while all around them were armed troops going about their early-morning business. Everyone's breath steamed in the cold air and as they drove around the airfield, beams of headlamps from all the vehicles flashed blindingly, like mechanical fireflies at night.

  It was freezing cold and within seconds of stepping on to the tarmac, snow started to settle thickly on their clothes.

  'Will Jackson?' a voice called.

  Will looked round to see a figure in RAF uniform standing by a military truck. Its yellow headlamps cut a beam through the half-light and the snow. The four-man unit walked towards him. 'I'm Junior Technician Evans,' he said. 'I've been sent to escort you.' The kid had a shock of ginger hair and green eyes. His face was chapped from the cold, and he barely looked old enough to walk to school by himself, let alone be out here.

  Will nodded and they climbed into the truck, Kennedy and Drew bringing the weapons case with them. The vehicle moved off and they were driven along a winding road that skirted the edge of the airfield. It stopped, about a mile later, outside a glum-looking pre-fabricated hut. A couple of trucks were parked outside and from the glow of light coming out of the window, Will could tell it was occupied.

  'Who lives here?' he asked the young RAF soldier, gruffly.

  'His name is Arthur Rankin, sir,' he replied. 'He's an assistant to the NATO Senior Civilian Representative. He helps coordinate liaisons between the military and the local Afghan population. He's requested that you report to him as soon as you land.'

  'Fine,' Will said. He turned to the unit. 'You three wait here. I'll see what he has to say.' He climbed out of the truck and hurried through the snow to knock on the door of the hut.

  'Come in,' a voice called, but Will had already opened the door and stepped inside.

  It was warm in the hut, thanks to a large electric heater burning at full blast; but warmth was the only comfort the place offered. It was sparsely furnished - at one end was a solitary desk that looked like it came from a school classroom, with a beige computer and a telephone on it. Around the walls were a number of metal filing cabinets and sitting behind the table was an enormously fat man wearing a thick woollen overcoat. Standing at the other end of the room was a tall, skinny man with dark skin, a long scruffy beard and sturdy Afghan clothes. He had a large, hooked nose, deep brown eyes and his hair was bundled into a black turban.

  'Shut the bloody door, for crying out loud,' the fat man barked. His voice was posh and it didn't do much to endear him to Will, who closed the door slowly behind him.

  'Beastly place,' the man shuddered. 'As hot as hell in the summer, colder than a snowman's bollocks in winter.' He stood up and waddled towards Will. 'Arthur Rankin. Welcome to Afghanistan,' he said, stretching out his hand. 'You must be delighted to be here.'

  Will shook his podgy hand without much enthusiasm. 'Not really,' he replied. 'The sooner we can get our business done, the sooner we can leave.' He looked meaningfully over at the bearded man.

  'This is Sami,' Rankin said. 'He's your fixer.'

  Will nodded curtly at Sami. 'I take it you have details of our contact.'

  Rankin rolled his eyes at Will's aggressive demeanour. 'Of course he has the details of your contact,' he said. 'I hardly think he's here for the company or the comfortable surroundings.' He smiled at his own joke. 'I'd like to offer you a seat, but I'm afraid NATO won't stretch to any extra chairs in my delightful office.'

  'I'll stand.'

  'You'll have to, my friend.'

  Will ignored him and turned to the fixer.

  'Where do I meet him?'

  Sami eyed him warily. 'Kandahar, at eleven o'clock this morning.' His voice was heavily accented, but he obviously spoke English extremely well.