‘I didn’t know you knew her so well.’
‘I only met her the once at your wedding, but she’s hard to forget. I helped her set out the NCO’s mess for the reception. Jesus—that was one long morning. I don’t think that woman’s ever said please or thanks in her life.’
Irvine sniggered. ‘She’s probably never farted, either. Not even as a baby.’
Regan laughed in spite of himself. ‘Don’t get me started. We’ll be back in Iraq under the camo netting by the time I’ve stopped ranting about her.’
They gathered as much decent food as they could, passed an amiable dinner under the stars, and got a decent sleep. Time would pass in the blink of an eye before they loaded back in the belly of a Chinook helicopter, on their way back to their desert hideouts.
Chapter 5
02:38 January 17th, 1991
‘Jim wake up, something’s happening.’
Regan stretched and yawned, ‘What’s wrong Trev?’
‘Just have a bloody look, will you?’
‘Alright, alright…’ He crawled over to where Irvine was keeping watch from their sand-dune foxhole.
‘Over there,’ Irvine said, pointing at a distant glow in the direction of Kuwait.
Regan picked up his binoculars and zoomed in as much as he could. All he could make out was an orange-ish glow against the blackness of night. ‘Can’t see fuck all. When did that start?’
‘Maybe five minutes ago.’
‘Why didn’t you wake me five minutes ago?’
‘I thought I was seeing things to begin with. It was faint, but now it’s not. Something big’s going on over there, though. I counted four light flares within seconds. I reckon it’s an air strike.’
‘Hmm… could be.’ Light flares usually meant explosions. He sighed, wondering what they were about to get sucked into. ‘What time is it?’
‘Just coming up to a quarter to three.’
‘Call up the base and see what they have to say.’
Irvine clipped on his throat mic and picked up the headphones. ‘Bravo-one-zero, this is bravo-one-two, over.’
‘Reading you loud and clear, bravo-one-two. Pass your sitrep, over.’
‘I have eyes on what looks like a large fire in the distance towards our south-west, following multiple explosions. Are you aware, over?’
‘Bravo-one-two be advised that coalition airstrikes against Iraqi targets inside Kuwait are currently in progress. Over.’
‘Roger, message received and understood, bravo-one-two out.’ Irvine cut the call and shot Regan a huge grin. ‘Looks like it’s on, Jim. It’s probably the Yanks attacking Iraqi installations in preparation for a ground assault.’
‘Thank fuck for that! This detail’s been driving me nuts.’ Regan rolled his shoulders but couldn’t get rid of the stiffness he’d had in his neck since pretty much the beginning of the campaign to liberate Kuwait. Hopefully this meant they’d be going home, soon. Neither he nor Trev had managed to make it back for Christmas, but the lads had found their own way of celebrating back at the Riyadh base. They’d created Christmas trees made out of all sorts of weird and wonderful items hanging around the base, and the trees had only been cleared away a couple of days ago, when Errington tripped over one and went into a rant about the exceptional bad luck to be endured by any marine whose creations ripped their colonel’s trousers—before or after Twelfth Night.
Irvine chuckled. ‘I hear you. Look on the bright side—so far you’re the only one to see any action. As far as I’m aware, none of the others have had so much as a sniff of a scud launcher though rumour has it the SAS got a couple, so don’t complain in front of anyone but me, yeah? Especially not Morgan.’
Regan blinked. ‘Why especially not Morgan?’
Irvine knelt up and turned away, making a big show of straightening out the support on his side of the fox hole.
‘Trev?’
‘Forget I said anything.’
Regan shuffled round so Irvine couldn’t avoid his gaze. ‘You’ve got me worried, now. Did you two have a barney, or something?’
‘Not me and him, no. Nah, we’re alright. I’m just… giving him space where I can. His moods have been…’
‘Erratic?’ Regan prompted. He’d noticed Morgan roaring at a private just for bumping into him while he was carrying coffee. He’d had to apologise to the private on Morgan’s behalf before word about his attitude got back to the people whose opinions mattered. Rodge had clearly been stressed about something lately, but it was clear that even Irvine was getting fed up with cutting the man a load of slack.
Irvine sighed. ‘Rodge had a run-in with Austin yesterday morning. I had to break things up before it got out of hand.’
‘What happened?’
‘You know Morgan was late for the briefing?’
‘Yeah?’ Regan nodded, remembering feeling confused and relieved when Errington hadn’t made an issue of it.
‘Well Austin had seen him still on the phone after the second reminder had gone out over the PA, and thought he’d do Rodge a favour by letting Errington know in advance that he was running some errand. And, of course, Rodge got caught out when Errington asked him how he was doing with whatever bullshit task Austin had mentioned. The colonel gave Rodge both barrels for making other people cover for his slackness. Morgan got right in Austin’s face about it afterwards, shouting that he didn’t need some interfering cunt accounting for his every move.’
‘Christ.’
‘Yeah.’ Irvine flipped onto his back and laced his fingers behind his head. ‘You’re gonna have to have a word with him before he gets himself DQ’d.’
‘He’s not going to listen to me.’
‘Maybe not, but he’s your mate, right? At least if you have a shot at putting him straight and he doesn’t listen, then you’ve done your bit.’ Irvine shut his eyes. ‘Anyway, I’m not going to think about it. I don’t want to ruin my beautiful mood.’
Regan chuckled. ‘It was nice of Austin to let you know.’
‘Seven weeks early, but baby Irvine’s still a good four pounds and six ounces. The boy’s got muscle, I’m telling you.’
‘Sure he has.’ Regan laughed. ‘If he's anything like his dad, most of it's between his ears. Go to sleep.’
For once, Irvine nodded off quickly, leaving Regan hours of silence in which he could worry about how to deal with Roger without having to pull rank.
***
03:40 January 21st 1991
Regan was on watch when, in the distance, he saw a bright light emerge from the ground and streak upwards into the night. It looked like a comet travelling the wrong way. The flare of orange blossomed into a plume high up in the sky and began falling back to Earth. They’d been surrounded by flashes and explosions for the last three nights at all points on the compass as coalition air strikes systematically destroyed the Iraqi military’s ability to fight.
This explosion was different, though. It was bad news, this explosion in the air.
He keyed up the mic. ‘Bravo-one-zero this is Bravo-one-two, how copy over?’
‘Bravo-one-two, reading you ten by ten. State your sitrep, over,’ Pincher Martin rapped out from the other end of the line.
‘Alright, Pincher. We’re all good up at the sharp end, but I’m calling to let base know that we’re observing what looks like a coalition aircraft hit by a SAM while in flight. It’s going down in flames around ten miles to our south-west, over.’
‘Can you confirm it’s a coalition aircraft, over?’
Who else is going to get shot down over Iraq by a surface-to-air missile, you bell-end? Regan cleared his throat. ‘Cannot confirm from this distance, over.’
‘Roger that. Did you see the crew eject and can you give me a grid reference?’
A fucking grid reference from this distance, you moron? Do you want me to run down there with a tape measure to see exactly how far away it is, too?
‘Negative on the crew, and wait one on the grid reference!’
<
br /> ‘Jim,’ Irvine said just as Regan cut the mic, ‘keep the noise down.’
‘Sorry Trev, it’s just that fucking idiot—’
‘Pincher Martin, yeah I heard. Just accept the guy’s a cock and keep your answers short and sweet, eh? I’d rather not get blown away by some random passing goat-shagging raghead, if it’s all the same to you.’
‘Yeah sorry mate, it’s… well, he fucking winds me up.’ Regan keyed the mic and took a stab at a grid reference, which he pinged across before signing off. ‘You can get back to sleep now.’
Irvine chuckled. ‘You’re too kind.’
Around thirty minutes passed before Regan picked up their call-sign again. The voice at the other end was unmistakeably Errington’s. His gut clenched. Had he fucked up with the information he’d sent Pincher?
‘Bravo-one-two, we believe the aircraft you reported being shot down earlier was carrying a high-value asset, which needs recovering as a matter of urgency. The American combat rescue team is grounded due to technical problems. You’re the closest friendlies that can attempt a rescue. The crew is transmitting on SARBE 7PLB equipment on two-four-three megahertz. There’s an A10 Warthog flying overwatch and at present, the area is clear of hostiles. Please confirm sitrep receipt, over.’
‘Copy that,’ Regan said, and reeled the details back to Errington. He was hugely relieved to find, on getting further instructions, that his grid reference had only been a couple of miles out. He noted the correct map reference for the rescue attempt, and shook Irvine awake.
‘Trev, we’ve got a rescue mission on.’
‘Okay Jim, I heard. Gimme a second.’
‘Fucking yanks can’t fly for some reason.’
Irvine got up on his knees and started getting critical gear back into his Bergen. ‘Off I go, then.’
‘You’ve just become a father again.’
‘And you’ve got a pre-teen who needs his dad home to stop him causing merry hell.’ Irvine shrugged. ‘So, who goes and who stays?’
‘Toss a coin, I reckon.’ Regan dug a little local currency out of his pocket and flipped it up in the air, catching it on the back of his hand. ‘Call it.’
‘Heads.’
‘Shit! How come I even lose with my own double header?’
Irvine laughed. ‘Well, since it’s my choice and you got the last bit of action, I reckon I’ll go rescue the yank.’
‘Go on, then get going before I talk you out of it.’ Regan flicked a friendly salute as Irvine climbed out of the hide and set off on his quad. The slight knot in his gut tightened. Fair enough, Trev had already spoken to Errington about moving to a desk job after his tour, so it would be good for him to have a rescue behind him when he left.
He just hoped Trev’s rescue went without a hitch.
Chapter 6
Morgan grunted in annoyance as instructions came over the radio to leave his current watch to join Regan at Clapham while Irvine retrieved some American pilot—who also happened to be a 2-Star General—from the scene of the crash. It took him less than a minute to pack up his gear and get going on his quad towards Clapham’s cloverleaf.
Once out of view of the hideout he’d just left, he brought the quad to a halt behind a steep dune and brought out his unopened, 70cl bottle of Imperial Vodka. He cracked the lid from the seal and swigged at it until that gentle numbness seeped its way through his brain. One more swig…
He put the cap back on the bottle and chewed gum.
One more swig. You can always say you were delayed by—
No. Bad plan.
Crying inside, Morgan unscrewed the lid again and poured half the bottle into the sand. He wanted to keep enough for the buzz, but so much he’d be tempted to go too far. He needed to stay sharp; he’d been letting the side down lately, and everyone knew it.
Morgan packed the bottle away and got going on his quad.
He needed the drink to take the edge off the stress, and to stop him from fantasising about punching his brother in the face until he blacked out and bled all over his wife’s pristine white sofa. Their aunt had passed away suddenly a few days ago, and he’d spent just about every minute of his time on base trying to help his family by moving stocks and funds around so that they had cash flow for the funeral expenses. He couldn’t even go to the funeral—Aunt Erin was too remote a relative to qualify his departure from Kuwait just after operation ‘Desert Storm’ had been announced—but the way his brother and dad got on his case about helping them to pay, anyone would’ve thought he was stiffing his own mother out of a decent burial.
Morgan jerked on the quad handles, ripping the machine forward a few feet. He needed something to kick, really. Had anyone thanked him for his help? Not a chance. So it was fine for those fuckers to take advantage of his entrepreneurial skills when they were needed, but the minute he got back home, the usual abusive service would resume.
Wankers.
‘What’s on, Sarge?’ Morgan asked, as he snaked under the camouflage netting.
‘Looks like a Republican Guard checkpoint set up down there,’ Regan said, pointing at the enemy soldiers milling about in the shade beneath the road junction.
‘Ah, they’re alright mate. I expect they’re just looking to make a few dinars out of the locals.’
‘Yeah, I know what they’re doing there, but that’s the way Trevor Irvine will come back. He won’t see them until he’s right on top of them.’
‘D’you reckon his radio’s gone kaput?’
‘Either that, or he can’t hear me raising him over the noise of his quad. One way or the other, I can’t warn him.’ Regan took a long squint though his rifle sights. ‘They’re just over seventeen hundred yards away and there’s only four of them. I reckon we can take them from here if they give Trev any trouble.’
Morgan nodded. It was a simple enough task, but definitely a two-man job. He worked out the calculations for bullet drop and wind correction then set up his rifle sights while Regan kept his eyes on the junction.
Time seemed to inch past. A couple of times Morgan caught Regan glancing across at him and sniffing. Morgan held his breath until he’d had the chance to reload his mouth with fresh gum. After another half hour Regan still hadn’t mentioned any smell of alcohol, but the silence had become stifling. Morgan cleared his throat.
‘How’s Paddy?’
‘Unsettled. Carla says he’s giving her the run-around when he’s not busy giving her lip.’
‘That’s teenagers for you.’
‘He’s twelve.’
‘It’s still the teenage mindset, yeah?’ Morgan rolled his eyes. Regan could be so bloody pedantic. ‘Is he jealous?’
Regan pulled back from his rifle sight. ‘Of what?’
‘The baby.’
‘Possibly.’ Regan sighed. ‘I dunno. From what Carla’s saying, most of their rows are about her apparently “getting in his face” while he’s trying to look after Johnny. If he had issues sharing her attention with him, I’d have thought…’
Morgan waited for Jim to go on, but he didn’t. ‘You’d have thought they’d argue about him never getting to go out and do his own thing?’
‘Yeah. Suppose so. Caz doesn’t give much away.’
And neither do you, you uptight bugger. Morgan swigged from his water and kept his tone conversational. ‘He probably just told his mum that he could put a bloody nappy on without her hanging over his shoulder.’
‘That’s a good thing is it? Paddy swearing at his mum?’
‘No, of course not, but you’re not going to stop a kid from swearing at that age. The important stuff is what they get angry about. If he’s just peed off because he thinks she doesn’t trust him looking after your handicapped little fella—’
Regan stiffened. ‘He’s beautiful.’
‘Didn’t say he wasn’t. But, being realistic, he’s going to be high-maintenance compared to a baby without a whole bunch of disabilities, isn’t he?’
‘Will you shut it?’
&
nbsp; ‘Keep your fuckin’ hair on. Just making conversation.’
‘Change the subject, then.’
‘You’re a right prickly arse these days, you know.’ Morgan ignored the death-glare Regan darted at him and put his rifle down. ‘Since you’re not feeling chatty, I’m going to get me head down. Give me a shout if anything interesting happens.’ He laced his fingers across his chest, not giving a shit that it was Regan’s call whether either of them slept, and, if so, in which order.
***
As dusk began to fall, Regan saw Trevor Irvine closing on the cloverleaf. He still seemed to have a passenger.
Shit. Why hasn’t anyone picked up the General?
One of the Republican guards manning the barrier must have heard the quad incoming too, because, he and his partner un-slung and readied their weapons. Regan shook Morgan’s leg.
Morgan grunted. ‘Hmm… What’s up?’
‘Looks like it’s on.’
‘What’s the wind doing, Jim? Are the scopes still set?’
‘It’s been pretty constant with an occasional gust. There’s an Iraqi flag down there at the junction that picks up every now and then, but it’s head on so it shouldn’t affect us too much. We shouldn’t need to give them any lead, but around half a dot high to allow for drop.’
‘Okay, got it. When do you want to take them?’ Morgan asked, settling himself behind his rifle and chambering a round.
‘As soon as Trevor rounds the on-ramp of the cloverleaf, cos I reckon that’s when they’ll see him.’
‘Uh-huh. Which two do you want?’
'I’ll take the one to the left of the barricade; you do the one on the right. Then we’ll take the two sitting in the Toyota Landcruiser. The one behind the wheel’s mine, you can do his oppo. Okay?’
‘Yep. Say the word, and they’re gone.’
‘Good man.’ Regan quirked Morgan a grin, grateful to the man for not holding his earlier shittiness against him. It had taken a couple of hours for it to sink home that Morgan hadn’t tried to be unkind. He’d apologise later, but for now Regan focussed his attention on Irvine’s quad, which bounced up off the desert onto the tarmac road, right in front of the roadblock. Regan saw Irvine hit the brakes just inches from the red and white barrier. He and the general on the back of the quad raised their hands in surrender as the two Iraqi soldiers pointed AK47s at them.
Desert OverWatch Page 4
