by Andy McNab
6
Tom approached the USAF command tent from the rear. Inside, it was filled with a choking cloud of dust from a freshly exploded grenade. There were two dead, their body armour only half on, and a bloody trail where a third had crawled a few metres before succumbing to his injuries. There was nothing he could do for them. And there was firing outside. He ducked out, flattened himself against the Hesco wall and got his first sight of the insurgents. Two hundred metres away, a dozen or more were advancing on the next aircraft. They looked like ANA; one was carrying an RPG launcher, another lugging a heavy machine-gun.
Tom darted forward, staying parallel but out of their line of sight, heading towards a maintenance hangar. A bullet zinged over his head, which could only have come from the hangar.
‘I’m a Brit!’ he yelled, into the darkness.
Inside, a bunch of night crew, mechanics and supply clerks were holed up behind tool cabinets, the muzzles of their rifles trained on the doors. What the fuck were they doing, crammed together like sitting ducks? The walls of the hangar were no more than thin aluminium sheeting. If their attackers felt like it, they could just dump a few rounds on them and they’d be gone.
A dazed-looking mechanic lifted his head from behind a pile of tyres. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’
These guys packed wrenches and wielded power drills, but as US Marines they were also trained in basic infantry tactics. There wasn’t much time to think. The camp’s size was also its weakness: the base operations centre was at least two miles away. The staff there could well be oblivious. By the time a response team was on site the insurgents would have done their worst. The other question troubling Tom – where had they come from? Was this really an insider attack, or just designed to look like one?
Out on the flight line Tom saw one of them shoulder his RPG launcher and take aim. A second later another Harrier exploded in a massive balloon of flame. Loaded with over ten thousand pounds of fuel, the first plane was now no more than a flaming carcass, the three hundred explosive rounds in its armoury going off like a giant demented firework. Debris showered the hangar’s thin roof. He crouched and addressed the mechanics.
‘No point staying here – they find you, they’ll fry you. You guys give me cover. I’ll get near enough to take some out.’
He snatched up one of their weapons and a couple of mags. No one argued.
From the door he scanned the flight line and made a plan. Once in motion he had no way of communicating with these men so he had to keep it simple. The insurgents clearly aimed to take out as many of the aircraft as they could. What was more, they seemed to know where they were going. A sickening thought came to him. Beyond the flight line, surrounded by earth embankments, were the fuel farms, massive rubber bladders holding millions of gallons of aviation fuel.
Covering fire would get him to the blast barriers, ten-foot-high concrete walls, which were supposed to stop incoming mortars or anything else the enemy might want to hurl at the aircraft. It might also deflect the insurgents, who would then return fire, or perhaps cause them to split up. Even in the few seconds he had eyes on them it was clear that they were committed and fearless but had evidently decided – or been told – to stick together in one clump. That at least made them vulnerable.
He sprinted up to the first blast barrier. Automatic-weapons fire ripped over his head as he dashed to the second. Another RPG streaked out of the darkness and slammed into one of the bladders, briefly turning night into day.
He flattened himself against the barrier, trying to get sight of the ANA uniformed men. He picked off the furthest of the five he could see first. Seeing their brother fall, the rest hesitated – just long enough for Tom to hit each of them. The nearest, also one of the smallest, had just set down a heavy belt-fed machine-gun. Tom aimed and took him down before he could fire. But a second even smaller man, perhaps a boy, sprang forward out of the gloom and embraced his fallen comrade. Seconds later the boy had grabbed the ancient weapon and swung it in Tom’s direction. Bullets spewed out of it, peppering the wall behind him. The shooter could barely control it, but seemed intent on emptying the belt regardless. Tom raised himself to get an angle, and found the insurgent in his optic. It was clear now that he was no more than a boy. Remembering he had only a handful of rounds, Tom took a breath to steady his aim and fired a single into the figure, who slumped lifelessly against the concrete.
Now the airfield was alive with troops, pouring fire down on the remaining insurgents. Slow to react, the full force of the ISAF had now been brought to bear. It was as good as over.
Tom ran up to the two boys spread-eagled on the flight line. One was dead, the other wounded but conscious, on his back, his right arm trapped under him. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, the new ANA uniform stiff and several sizes too large, the old sneakers dangling off his feet split at the sides, the soles completely worn through. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder. On its way it had burst the breast pocket of his tunic, exploding a bag of nuts and raisins that were now scattered over his chest. He was saying something over and over. Isa, Isa.
Tom dropped to his haunches and addressed him in Dari. ‘Which way did you come?’ The boy didn’t move. His eyes were full of tears. Tom repeated the question in Pashto. ‘Which way?’
The boy tilted his head and glanced towards the East Gate.
‘Through the wire or through the gate?’
The boy coughed.
‘You need medicine. I can get you medicine. Just answer the question.’
The boy jerked to the left and brought out his right hand. The muzzle of an ancient Chinese QSZ 92 9mm pistol was pointing straight at Tom. You had to admire the kid’s persistence.
Tom jumped back and kicked out. The pistol flew out of the boy’s hand, just as the sound exploded behind him. For a fraction of a second Tom thought the pistol had discharged as it clattered onto the tarmac, the air next to his cheek displaced by the bullet’s journey. But the boy’s head jolted back, a three-inch crater where his left ear had been. The fatal bullet had come from behind Tom. He swung round. Three metres away, Qazi’s weapon was still aimed at the boy. He raised his eyebrows at Tom. ‘That was close.’
‘Why’d you do that? The kid was down.’
Qazi ignored the question. He came forward and took out a knife, then bent down and cut the straps of the dead insurgent’s backpack and pulled it from under him. But Tom’s gaze was concentrated on the dark stain on his right thigh, where he had seen him wiping his palm when they met by the gym.
Tom glanced at the knife, then back at the stain. And saw Dave’s lifeless face, the empty blue eyes, the long, seeping gash across his throat.
And then he knew.
Qazi pocketed the knife. Lifted the backpack and started to walk away.
‘Stop.’
Qazi turned slowly, a withering look on his face. Tom flung himself at the Afghan and they both slammed onto the ground and rolled. Tom heard the clink of the knife, saw it, lunged for it, grabbed it.
An American officer and two others rushed towards them, seized Tom and pulled him off, twisting the weapon out of his grip.
‘What the fuck is this?’
Tom shoved the American away and threw himself again at Qazi, taking him down in a rugby tackle as Qazi kicked back at him. As they struggled, Tom gripped the seam of the Afghan’s fatigues until the Americans leaped on him and wrenched him free.
Qazi stood motionless, his eyes boring into Tom’s. But all Tom could see was Dave’s face, his eyes gazing upwards and past him, the life in them gone. Qazi reached down slowly, picked up the knife and put it back in its sheath.
7
A hard hot morning sun had just appeared over the blast barriers and was already training its unforgiving glare on Tom. He could feel the sweat trickling itchily downwards under the body armour that all personnel had been ordered to wear after the raid. On the surface it looked like just another day at the base. But underneath everyone was on edge. Th
ere had been no sleep. An acrid smog of burned rubber and fuel still hung in the air.
His body aching from head to toe, he found some shade under the awning stretched out over the front of the brigade commander’s Portakabin. A few feet away a Yank was balancing on his haunches, dark aviators and a whitewall haircut, sand-coloured cargoes, black nylon web belt and dark blue polo shirt under his armour. Had to be CIA.
‘You before me, sir?’
The spook said nothing, just looked at him.
Eventually the door opened and an orderly beckoned to Tom. As he went forward the Yank eased himself to his feet and followed. Tom frowned at him.
‘Don’t mind me, soldier. Just making sure that what needs doing gets done.’
The one-star British Task Force commander, Brigadier Kershaw, was bent over a mass of papers on his desk. Beside him a fan stirred the syrupy air. He waved Tom to a chair without glancing up.
The spook took a seat at the back of the room. Eventually Kershaw raised his eyes. He looked like a man shouldering more than his fair share of the world’s woes.
‘First of all, your quick action against the insurgents last night – consider it noted.’
‘It was all hands to the pumps, sir. I just did what I could.’
Kershaw frowned into the cup of black tea by his elbow: they were out of milk again. ‘However we have a problem. I don’t need to remind you, we’re under the operational command of the ANA now. ISAF’s role is purely to assist.’
Tom didn’t like where this was going. He took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could. A restraining voice somewhere in his burning head told him to hear out the one-star.
‘Let me remind you of just where we stand – and where you stand. Our political masters are looking for a smooth exit out of here, which leaves us in effect trying to put the genie back in the bottle. Incidents like this set us all back. Suddenly the bridges we’ve been building stone by stone between ISAF and the ANA go to Hell. This sort of thing saps Afghan morale and ISAF confidence. Assaulting an ANA officer – that has political implications, plays into the hands of all the sceptics back home. It’s not helpful and that is why you’re in front of me.’
Kershaw’s gaze flicked to the Yank seated behind.
‘The last thing ISAF, Whitehall and the White House want right now is yet another scrap with Kabul. So I’m afraid they’re taking rather a hard line on it.’
The Task Force commander’s frustration with what he was having to say was plain. His expression softened.
‘This is very delicate, Buckingham.’
But Tom was fighting a losing battle with his own anger. ‘Unlike Sergeant Dave Whitehead’s murder, sir. Nothing delicate about that.’
Kershaw reddened. ‘Sergeant Whitehead’s death is deeply regretted. Your comments on the matter have already been noted.’
‘Noted, sir?’
The brigadier slammed both hands on the desk, sending papers flying in all directions. ‘Don’t be an arse, Tom. Can’t you see I’m giving you an exit? Qazi is an ANA hero. He’s also a cousin of the ANA five-star in Kabul. Their fathers fought together with the Muj. When we get the hell out of here it’s the likes of him who’ll have to pick up the pieces. The fact is that, as you know, Sergeant Whitehead was killed by insurgents.’
Tom could feel his own face burning as well. For a moment neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the fan and the Yank’s foot tapping his chair.
‘Who let them in? Who got them past the sentries?’
Kershaw waved the question away. ‘All this will be examined.’
‘What are the media saying?’
‘They don’t have the story – and it’s staying that way.’
Tom felt a jolt of outrage course through his body. He fixed the one-star with a venomous glare.
‘Wind your neck in, Sergeant. As I said, I’m giving you an exit here. Do not fuck that up. You’re booked on the next transport to Brize.’
‘The fuck—?’ Tom couldn’t help himself.
Kershaw’s face was purple now. Again, his eyes flicked across to the American and back to Tom. ‘Carry on like this and you’ll need a new career.’
Tom got to his feet. The American opened the door and held it. Outside, a convoy of salvage vehicles was taking away the charred carcasses from the night’s inferno.
Tom looked at the American, his expression masked by the dark glasses. ‘After you. Sir.’
Deaf to his sarcasm, the Yank shook his head. ‘You Brits! Always so polite.’
As the American disappeared into the brightness, Kershaw coughed. ‘This isn’t my way of doing things. It came down from Kabul. Welcome to the snake pit.’
Tom reached into his pocket and took out a small plastic bag. He turned and placed it on Kershaw’s desk.
‘What’s this?’
‘A memento, sir.’
Inside was a scrap of bloodstained fabric.
‘A piece of Qazi’s ACU. You might want to get someone to check whose blood that is.’
8
Pimlico, London
The solitary police van started to rock. It was surrounded and prone, like an animal separated from its herd, with half a dozen uniforms trapped inside. Several of the mob wore white robes. With each shove the van tipped further until it teetered tantalizingly in the balance, then crashed onto its side. A huge roar went up from the mob in the street and the spectators on the balconies of a nearby block of flats. The back doors of the van sprang open as some of the occupants tried to make their escape. Flames erupted from underneath.
Sarah Garvey aimed the remote and froze the picture. ‘Jesus Christ.’
She slumped back on the sofa. Her eyes were sore and gritty from three days of semi-sleepless nights. She reached for the glass on the coffee-table and downed the remains of the Evian.
Roger Spate leaned against the fireplace. ‘I do advise you to keep going, Home Secretary.’
‘I think I’ve got the gist.’
‘We can stop, of course, if it’s upsetting.’ There was a small twitch of mock pity around Spate’s mouth.
They were in the front room of her Georgian town house with the blinds down, the muffled chat of the press pack camped on her doorstep filtering through the reinforced windows.
‘It does get better, trust me,’ he added.
Trusting her press officer was an indulgence she had so far not allowed herself. Screw you, Roger, she thought, knowing that her glare would say it for her. She pressed play.
He pointed at the screen, excited. ‘Stand by for the money shot.’
Spoken like a true hack.
Just as the mob fell on the escaping cops, a huge white truck lurched round the corner.
‘Remember the water cannon you okayed? Voilà – just off the boat from Belfast, courtesy of the PSNI.’
The jet of water from the turret above its cab simultaneously doused the fire and scattered the mob, like skittles, leaving the cops drenched but safe.
‘Thank Christ for that.’
Spate coughed quietly into his fist.
Typical of him to look so pleased with himself, as if he had personally saved the day.
‘What one could almost call a very welcome good-news story. The media haven’t exactly been co-operative when it comes to showing us getting a grip. And the ones in the white robes. We’re just getting confirmation that three of them are returnee jihadis, back from Syria.’
She could only marvel at his gift for remaining smug at the direst of moments. She jabbed at the screen. ‘Good news for whom? When did we last see water cannon trained on mainland British subjects?’
Spate gazed at her, clearly surprised at being wrong-footed. He said nothing while she pressed on.
‘The ring-leaders may be jihadi returnees. Yes, it shows the police getting stuck in, but what’s the fallout? What kind of message does it send to the rest of the Muslim community? You think this is going to make people think twice about taking to the streets
? Think again.’
Spate sagged a little as if he could sense a speech coming. Garvey was in full flow. The only option was to keep mum and listen.
‘See that orange glow in the background? That’s the Leafhaven Mall left to burn out of control. The BBC’s claiming that the fire brigade are so stretched they’ve decided to let it burn and concentrate on the surrounding dwellings. There are major blazes in five other cities. This isn’t going away, Roger. People are starting to wonder if anyone’s in charge.’
Spate lifted a finger. ‘Are you suggesting we fly the PM back from Camp David?’
We? Who the fuck does he think he is?
In any case, she knew damn well that neither wild horses nor even parts of the country in flames would make the PM abandon his love-in with the President.
The news package cut to a line of people wrapped in blankets being ushered into a school hall, which had been commandeered as a temporary shelter. Spate was pointing again. ‘Well, Home Secretary, if I may, this does look like someone’s in charge – caring for the victims.’
Garvey looked at him, amazed by his capacity to detect the thinnest silver lining in even the darkest cloud. That was a talent, she supposed, of sorts.
‘Those people.’ She jabbed a finger at the group of residents being ushered towards the hall. ‘Who d’you think they’re going to be voting for in the next election?’
Her phone buzzed: the prime minister. She snatched it up, at the same time shooing Spate out of the room.
‘Sarah! So sorry I’ve been incommunicado. POTUS has been keeping us under lock and key.’
‘Bit hard to hear you – there’s a loud buzzing.’
