Fortress

by Andy McNab

  ‘Look, we’ve got the whole of our lives ahead of us. We can try again.’

  It sounded weak and clichéd, but what else could he say? How could he comfort her, reassure her from a desert fortress more than three thousand miles away? The pregnancy had been a complete accident, parenthood something he hadn’t even considered. But he’d supported her all the way, even fancied himself as potential good dad material – when he was around. But it wasn’t to be.

  He had dealt with more than his fair share of death: seen mates killed, shredded, vaporized, smashed to pieces so small there was nothing to bury. But watching your own child die as it was being born, and its distraught mother turn her face away from you in grief? There was no training for that.

  ‘Look …’ he began. The screen flickered, but he soldiered on. ‘Why don’t you go home for a bit, get away from all this? Find some …’ He’d been going to say ‘perspective’ but that would have sounded as if he thought she was being irrational. ‘Get some decent rest. Clean French air. Your mum’s cooking. Cassoulet and tarte Tatin. Mmm, fantastique.’

  This time she couldn’t help smiling. He had only stayed with them once and had overeaten spectacularly. Her father’s expression had implied concern that a man with so little self-control should be allowed anywhere near live ammunition.

  ‘The pub can arrange cover, I’m sure, and—’

  ‘They have. Moira has found someone.’

  ‘So it’s already sorted?’ He tried to keep the dismay out of his voice. ‘Good! That’s – good. You need to get away.’

  Then the line was gone. Her sad, perfect face was sliced and diced into pixels, then discrete blocks of colour that froze and slid away, like a surreal, digitized version of Jenga.

  ‘Fuck it.’

  He grabbed his pistol and followed Dave out into the baking night.

  3

  Perimeter of Camp Bastion

  They flattened themselves against the dirt, head to toe like a line of ants, moving forward in the darkness, out of the mud-walled village towards the poppy field. There were twelve and the Leader, levering themselves forward on their elbows, four of them not yet out of their teens. Isamuddin’s face was still completely smooth, without even the beginnings of a moustache. All were full of hope for the better life awaiting them.

  Every day for two months they had trained under cover, behind walls and under improvised awnings, building their strength, assembling the devices, memorizing the layout of the infidel base, the size of a city, from a map scratched onto the wall of the room that had been their living quarters. As he pulled himself forward, Isamuddin risked a glance behind him at his brother. But Aynaddin wasn’t looking. His eyes were tight shut, tiny points of light betraying the presence of his tears. Only his lips moved in silent recitation. Isa tried to send him a thought message: Do not worry, little brother. You and I will soon be in glory. But all Ayna heard was the verses he repeated over and over to jam all his other thoughts – of doubt and paralysing fear.

  Isa looked up into the starless night, a vast cavern that guarded their ultimate destination. His heart thumped at the thought of what awaited them after they had done their duty. The poppy was their last cover. Once through that they would be out in the open, with only half a kilometre of dirt before the perimeter. The orange glow of the floodlights was already visible beyond the foliage. He heard a sharp hiss a few feet ahead from the Leader, invisible in the darkness, who seemed to have eyes that glowed in the dark. Isa dropped his head so his nose scraped the dirt as he had been told, and kept on moving towards the poppy, where they would switch to a crouching run, guarded by the tall stalks, quickening their pace towards the target.

  The base had been there barely four years. It had taken shape with astounding speed, an instant fortress city of concrete, metal and wire on a previously barren plain. So many thousands lived behind its walls that the sewage run-off had given life to the desert, and fields of poppy had sprung up. Before, the invaders had destroyed the crop, eradicating the extra source of income. But all that had done was antagonize the population.

  They look strong with all their machines and missiles but, as you will see, they are weak, the Leader had explained. They have grown too sure of themselves, and because of that they are lazy. And on their useless diet of junk they have become fat and slow, while we have speed and patience, which is why we will prevail. The Leader had many such explanations for why victory was assured. The last reason, he had said, was They do not give their lives as you have chosen to. For this reason we will prevail.

  Isa didn’t remember choosing. He remembered the Leader appearing one night on a grey mare and telling his father that the boys of the village had been chosen to serve the Almighty, and that he should celebrate his good fortune. When his father had stood there, dumbstruck, the Leader had swung the AK47 into his face and knocked him to the ground. Before he could rise, the Leader had pushed the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Only Mother’s dramatic display of gratitude had stopped him pulling the trigger.

  Inches in front of his face Isa could just make out the heels of Khanay, his cousin, the hard calloused shells of skin built up over years of going barefoot, the loose legs of the oversized Afghan National Army uniform flapping around his ankles. And on his back, the dark mound of his pack stuffed with the devices they had prepared. Khanay had got the message. This is the greatest day of our lives! he had exclaimed, his eyes wild. Until this night we have been peasants of no value. Tomorrow we shall be princes, honoured by our family forever.

  The stolen uniforms were strange. Isa had never worn new clothes before. The stiff fabric between his legs chafed. They had forgone the boots, which had felt like metal cases round their feet, once they knew that the ANA themselves often went without, preferring sandals or bare feet. Four hours earlier they had stood in front of a video camera while the Leader recited his speech to the world in English. I give this message to the infidel crusaders … We will burn you and your weapons …

  Only Ayna understood. He was the educated one. He could read and count. They all marvelled at his capacity to remember things – the names of every village ancestor going back eight generations, and his unrivalled mastery of the Koran. He had even learned some English. He knew the names of all the invaders’ aeroplanes: Osprey, the half-plane, half-helicopter, Huey, with two rotors, Apache and the AV-8 jump jets that it was said could even fly backwards. There was so much in his head – and so much more he could know. Isa thought perhaps that was what made him cry: he didn’t know if he could take his earthly knowledge with him to Heaven.

  They brushed past the first poppy stalks but stayed flat to the earth. Before they had left the room, they had taken a last look at the map, the route across the huge base to their destination – the aircraft hangars. Was it yards or miles? They had no idea of the scale. Only today had the Leader let them into his secret. Don’t worry, my brothers, friends will be waiting. You will be transported.

  A miracle? Isa asked.

  And the Leader laughed. In a way, yes.

  They lifted themselves to take their first look. Stretching from one horizon to the other, the perimeter fence looked like the border to another land. Above them in the starless sky a pair of jets thundered past, their black cut-out shapes almost invisible in the darkness, except for the twin circles of fire, low enough to shake the ground beneath their feet. In the brief orange glow of the engines Isa again saw the glint of tears on Ayna’s face. He reached out and gave his arm a squeeze – but then the Leader spoke.

  ‘Here we wait for the signal.’

  4

  They were in the open now, moving swiftly in the dark, their packs heavy with weapons and ammunition bouncing on their backs, pounding the rough dirt underfoot. They ran heads down towards the towering walls, giant mesh barriers filled with sand and topped with razor wire. Up ahead the Leader looked round every few seconds, as if any of them would dare to turn back. Isa glanced at Ayna and saw that his previously tearful face had
hardened into a mask of concentration, as if he had finally found something to focus on, perhaps knowing that there was no alternative fate, nothing to do but resign himself to what was ahead.

  They were now within range of the giant arc lights that swept the area round the gate, the light bouncing off the sweat on their faces. Any other day, the guards in the towers would have seen them. Loudspeakers would have ordered them to halt and identify themselves. But this wasn’t any day.

  A brother will prepare our welcome, the Leader had told them. The gates will open: no guards will fire. They must wait for a signal to approach. Three flashes five seconds apart, and the same a minute later. They were all commanded to watch so no one would miss it. On the third they were to move forward, like a detachment of real ANA soldiers returning from a perimeter patrol. Never mind that they were on foot and it was night. The ANA were famous among the other nationalities for doing strange things.

  Beyond the wire, the lights of the airfield shone with a ghostly glow. Even at night they appeared to shimmer, the heat of the day still rising. Below they could make out the sharp outlines of the Ospreys, the Huey gunships, Cobras and Harrier jump jets, loaded with rockets and bombs. These machines – unassailable, so the enemy believed – were their targets.

  Ayna saw it first. Three flashes a few metres to the left of the gate. He tugged Isa’s tunic and Isa squeezed the forearm of the Leader.

  Who is he, the man on the other side? Ayna had asked. How is he our brother if he is with the enemy?

  We have many brothers everywhere, came the Leader’s reply. They are biding their time, waiting to act. As well as courage, they have great patience, which is why we will win and the glory will be ours.

  Now they advanced again, in twos, as they had been instructed, like tired soldiers after a long day. But none of them was tired. Their hearts were beating fiercely. What they all knew was that this was their last march, and that the end would be soon – and spectacular.

  5

  Tom set a course for the gym near the perimeter of the flight line. He jogged down a street lined with rows of Portakabins occasionally interrupted by the odd ISO container. The pervasive whiff of aviation fuel hung in the air along with a thin clouding of dust. He’d known bases of all kinds around the world, but none on this scale. This was a vast fortress capable of handling an entire invasion force. Its sheer size alone should have been enough to get the message across to the enemy about who was boss round here. And despite all the talk about a phased withdrawal, construction was still going on, the runways being extended, rumour had it, so B-52s could be based there in the event of war with Iran.

  Yet Tom felt its very enormity, along with its arsenal of weaponry, created a false sense of security. Last week they had deployed to a forward patrol base, under canvas; no air-conditioned gym, just a desert rose to piss in and furniture improvised from wooden pallets and the wire frames of the Hescos. At least you knew what was at stake out in the field. He preferred it to this prefabricated metal city in the desert, a giant, very costly white elephant that the bean-counters in Whitehall and Washington longed to be rid of. But despite the politicians’ proclamations of ‘mission accomplished’ and the start of a phased handover to the Afghan National Army, to Tom it didn’t look like this long war was anywhere near done.

  A moonless sky hung over the camp, the moisture in the air reflecting the dull orange glow that came from the floodlights. At the end of the street of Portakabins a wide open space bordered on the USAF maintenance compound. To the left, about fifty metres away, was the South Gate, and straight ahead the gym, about another three minutes if he upped his pace. A small detachment of troops crossed the end of the street and turned towards the airfield. Just from their size Tom could tell they were ANA. Generations of deprivation and the habitual lack of decent nutrition had kept their average height several inches below that of the other nationalities. Once they had cleared he saw another figure in front of the gym, bareheaded, carrying a torch but no obvious weapon. The figure lit a cigarette, then lifted his head to blow a long plume of smoke up into the night.

  Qazi.

  That morning Tom had witnessed him being fêted by the US camp commander, Major General Carthage, in front of a gathering that included a number of press – quite a large number.

  ‘You are looking at the future, gentlemen.’ Carthage, towering over Qazi, patted him on the shoulder in a way that made Tom squirm, as if he was his pet. Qazi stood expressionless, with a faraway look in his eyes that revealed nothing.

  ‘Second Lieutenant Amhamid Qazi, like many in the ANA, enlisted out of patriotism and devotion to his country. As a member of the first Commando Battalion of the 3rd Brigade Quick Reaction Force he sure has shown us what he’s made of and just what the ANA is capable of doing.’

  Tom had felt himself cringe even more as he watched Carthage pour treacly praise over the Afghan.

  ‘… and then his weapon became inoperable. What did he do? Did he stop? The hell he did. He charged right on, leading his men up the ridge, heedless of the enemy fire all around …’

  After Carthage had come to the end of his sermon, Qazi had addressed the group in perfect English. ‘My companion soldiers were very brave and energetic, and they are very eager to bring peace and stability to the area, to Afghanistan and to the region as a whole.’

  Carthage had started to clap. He was keen to get on with his day, but Qazi wasn’t done. Carthage lowered his hands and kept smiling.

  ‘In fact, sir, Afghanistan’s forces will soon be in a position to defend every province and not allow any foreign invaders to use our country ever again.’

  Carthage’s lipless smile twitched at the edges, working hard to pretend he hadn’t caught the thinly veiled slight.

  Now Qazi appeared to be alone, finishing his cigarette under the ghostly orange of the floodlights. He turned and levelled his gaze as Tom approached.

  ‘As-salamu’ alaykum.’

  ‘Peace be with you too,’ replied Qazi in English.

  ‘Saw you in front of the cameras today.’

  ‘I do what I can.’ He shrugged as if he didn’t want to be reminded and took another long pull on the roll-up pinched between his fingers as he wiped his other hand on his thigh. ‘The major general was very generous.’ He snorted. ‘I saw on CNN that the war’s getting closer to home for you now.’

  ‘Sad, but true. The only way this ends is if we stand together.’

  Qazi looked blank.

  ‘Shona be shona.’

  Qazi grinned, recognizing the ISAF motto in Dari. ‘“Shoulder to shoulder.” Of course.’ He turned back to the end of his cigarette.

  Tom had learned a fair bit about the ANA on his tours. They were a mixed bunch, from various tribal backgrounds, and not by any means always loyal to the government. Some pragmatic families had hedged their bets by sending one son to the ANA and another to fight with the Taliban. But the biggest attraction was the $240 a month, not bad in a country where pay averaged $614 a year.

  Like soldiers the world over, they complained about everything – it was part of the job description – but they had now actually begun to look more like soldiers. They didn’t always use body armour and helmets but they had them, along with boots. They told Tom they didn’t like the American-issued M16s and, when he asked why, explained they weren’t strong enough: the Russian AKs they were used to didn’t break when they used them to hit people.

  Tom nodded as he went past the Afghan, up the steps into the gym. Inside, the kit was all new, smelling strongly of fresh paint and rubber. A recent shipment from the US, it was all set to do battle with the hearts – and, more importantly, stomachs – of the American troops. But he was the only one there. Sure enough, thought Tom, at this time of day they’d be more likely working on their endless appetites. There was no sign of Dave either. Maybe he was in the can. He looked at the brand new weights, then selected a couple of dumbbells, nothing too heavy. He weighed them in each hand as he carried them
over to the bench, set them down while he adjusted the height, and sat. Then, with his spine flat against the pad, he reached down and lifted the weights. Gripping them not too hard, his elbows aligned with his hips, he brought them up, breathing out as he lifted. Held them there, then lowered them, breathing in as they came down. Sweat beads immediately popped out on his forehead; he was out of shape. If nothing else, it would dissipate the tension after the talk with Delphine and tire him out enough for a decent sleep. He repeated the move ten times, then ten more. Even though it hurt he embarked on another ten. Just as he raised his hands, the distant ‘crump’ of a muffled explosion broke the silence somewhere to the west.

  He put down the weights and stood up, just as a second, far bigger, bang rocked the gym, blasting out the windows. He dived out of the way of the flying splinters, snatched up his weapon and, still crouching, ran to the door. A huge column of fiery smoke funnelled into the night sky. Pieces of debris rained down. And as he stepped back into the doorway he caught sight of a mound between the two Portakabins opposite, illuminated by the blaze.

  He sped across the roadway and into the gap, dropping to his knees as he came up to the huddled shape. He shone his torch into the face.

  Dave.

  His bright blue eyes stared past him as if with a faint look of surprise that they were meeting like this. Blood oozed from a deep gash across his throat, still warm, the front of his T-shirt sodden. Tom thrust his fingers into the wound, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. While he was lifting weights just a few metres away, Dave must have bled out. Tom embraced his friend, then laid him down again. There was nothing he could do. He removed his wallet for safekeeping and drew down his pistol. There was no doubt the smoke was from an aircraft on the tarmac that had been hit. His first thought was a mortar attack from outside the fence. But now he could hear small-arms fire, followed by a prolonged burst from a machine-gun. This wasn’t from outside. And tracer bouncing skywards confirmed it. This was a ground assault – an attack from inside.