Chapter Thirty-one

THE WHEEL STATION was blown on the front Mastiff. When the ground around it had been cleared for mines, the driver examined it, shaking his head.

‘If we could get the other wagon in front we might just about be able to tow it …’ he said doubtfully. With the one functioning Vallon the men had made a track within the track between the two vehicles. It was marked with blue spray paint. Now the driver joined Sections 2 and 3, who were crouched inside a wobbly blue line around the second Mastiff, having a brew and heating rations.

‘I think it would be better to blow the thing up but the major’s not having that,’ said Chalfont-Price gloomily, looking at the other Mastiff. ‘He’s determined to fix us here.’

Aaron thought that for once the man seemed human. He was sitting with his platoon, his hands clasped around a mug of tea as if it was a cold day in Wiltshire.

‘We don’t want to blow it up if we can help it,’ said the driver of the second vehicle.

The driver of the exploded Mastiff lit a cigarette. He had a bandage tried around his head and there was a small bloodstain soaking through it. ‘Nah. Not unless you want to make me cry,’ he said.

‘It’s just fucking typical that the other Vallon kit was damaged in the blast,’ said Chalfont-Price. ‘Right now it’s the bit of kit we need the most.’ His arm was bandaged towards the top and there was an obvious tear in his camouflage. But the graze was slight; Aaron Baker knew that, because he had bandaged the boss himself.

‘We could be fixed for a while,’ sighed the second lieutenant. ‘And unfortunately my kit’s right over there.’

He pointed to a Bergen which had been blown thirty metres into a field from the top of the Mastiff as if a giant hand had picked it up and dropped it there. Nearby were strewn two others.

‘So’s mine,’ said Mara, indicating his own kit.

‘So’s mine,’ said O’Sullivan, his voice heavy with misery.

‘A lifetime’s supply of peanuts lies rotting in that field,’ said Danny Jones. ‘It must be killing you, Paddy.’

‘Want to risk your life Barmaring out to it?’ suggested Gayle.

‘Maybe we should sound the Last Post for all them little silver bags,’ said Andy Kirk.

O’Sullivan only said: ‘I’m hungry.’

‘All right, all right, it’s coming,’ said Jason Swift, who was cooking something nearby for the men whose rations were now lying in a field.

As they ate, Aaron noticed the boss throwing anxious glances at his kit bag.

‘What crop is that?’ Chalfont-Price suddenly asked irritably.

The men shrugged.

‘Not poppies,’ said one.

‘Not marijuana,’ said another.

‘We rely on Jack Binns from 1 Section to answer our burning agricultural questions,’ said Jason Swift.

By way of explanation, Jonas added: ‘He’s from Dorset.’

‘Ah. No wonder,’ said the boss.

A voice said: ‘I think it’s cotton, sir.’

They all turned to look at Gerry McKinley, who reddened slightly.

‘Really? Are you from Dorset too?’ asked the boss.

Aaron thought it was amazing that Chalfont-Price had no idea where any of his men were from. But of course he never asked or showed the smallest interest in them. Aaron was sure that was one of the reasons Dave hated the commander. You could see it on the sergeant’s face at prayers, whenever the boss gave orders or was seen swaggering around at Bastion with his officer mates. And you could see Dave biting back angry, sarcastic retorts when the boss was rude to him. Aaron Baker didn’t know how Dave stopped himself from criticizing the boss in front of his men but he never, ever did.

‘No, sir,’ said Gerry McKinley. ‘I’m from Norfolk. But I saw cotton growing in America once and this looks a bit the same.’

The boss nodded. Aaron noticed that he continued to throw anxious glances at his kit.

The radio crackled into life. Reports came in that the FOB was under fire. Gradually the reports became more urgent. The FOB was under determined and sustained attack.

‘This isn’t looking good,’ said Jason Swift. ‘No air support and now they won’t be able to get out of the FOB to us either.’

It was hard to believe that there was a battle raging back at FOB Nevada. They were surrounded by silence. Just once or twice they heard the distant bass of artillery.

When it was time to change the men on stag, Aaron took Fife off the .50 cal and told O’Sullivan to replace him. The HMG had been lifted off the compromised wagon and carried back down the blue lane and mounted on to the second wagon instead of the gimpy.

There was the rustle of noise and activity when the men changed over and settled into their new positions. People moved around inside the blue line as though it was a high electric fence which they must not touch instead of some spray paint on the desert floor. The call to prayer sounded across the Green Zone and the desert as if it was swelling out of the ground. Then the voice stopped and the men were still and the afternoon was quiet again. Nearby were a couple of compound walls and from inside came the occasional shout of children playing and then a woman calling. Aaron Baker thought that women yelling to their kids sounded the same all over the world: the voice could belong to his mum telling his kid brothers to get inside for their tea.

The boss was still listening to the radio, his face alarmed.

‘There are now four PBs under attack as well as a very major assault on FOB Nevada,’ he said. ‘This is certainly a Taliban strategy in response to the handover from the Americans.’

‘They probably worked it all out a long time ago. They’ve just been waiting for a personnel change,’ said Aaron.

‘Four PBs and a FOB, that’s a lot of ragheads,’ said Swift.

Danny Jones shook his head. ‘They couldn’t have planned for a fucking sandstorm grounding air support. You have to ask yourself whose side Allah’s on.’

‘The ragheads don’t have to ask themselves. They know,’ said Gerry McKinley.

‘Wish I could be so sure of anything the way they are,’ muttered Andy Kirk.

The second driver rearranged his back against the wheel of the Mastiff, kicking up a small cloud of dust with his feet. ‘I’m sure of one thing. If Allah keeps Terry Taliban tied up down there, it’s good for us. If he lets Terry Taliban drift this way, we’re in trouble.’

They listened. What little battle noise they could hear sounded reassuringly distant.

The sun was sinking towards the horizon now. Further down in the Green Zone a boy chased six goats larger than he was. A man with a camel passed along a track on the other side of the canal. He did not look at them. No one came near.

‘They know this track has got mines sprinkled around on it like fucking pepper,’ said the bandaged driver. ‘That’s why no one walks along it.’

The boss wrinkled his brow. ‘But there’s nothing to stop someone crossing the field and taking my kit.’

‘We’re showing a lot of weapons, sir. I don’t think anyone’s going to risk nicking your kit,’ said Aaron.

‘Not with me on the fucking HMG they won’t,’ shouted O’Sullivan from the turret. ‘If Terry Taliban goes near my peanuts he’s dead meat.’

‘Even if they send a little kid?’ asked the driver of the second Mastiff.

‘Ha! Especially if they send a little kid!’

‘Yeah, well, let’s get real,’ said the driver with the bloodstained bandage. ‘If they ambush us and they’ve got enough firepower, they can get their hands on the kit, the wagon and us too.’

Aaron saw Chalfont-Price’s look of alarm. Trust a fucking driver to look on the bright side.

‘And anyway,’ the second driver went on, ‘once it’s dark it won’t be so easy to watch those Bergens.’

Andy Kirk picked up his tone. ‘The ragheads haven’t been for the Bergens yet because they’re just waiting until night.’

‘The way the kit’s sitting right out in the field, Terry Taliban probably thinks Allah just dropped a big present,’ added Jonas.

‘Yeah, gift-wrapped,’ Fife agreed.

Aaron rolled his eyes. So all those anxious looks which the boss kept throwing at his kit had not been lost on the lads. Chalfont-Price was not popular and men loved a chance to play on his fears.

‘For Chrissake, boys, we’ve got fucking night sights and we can keep an eye on the kit,’ Aaron said gruffly.

But now the boss’s attention had switched from the Bergens to the sky.

‘I think it’s getting dark already,’ he said.

Still enjoying his discomfort, the men agreed. ‘Yep. Won’t be long now, sir.’

Chalfont-Price suddenly jumped to his feet.

‘Look, it’s not just my rations in there. It’s some sensitive stuff,’ he said. ‘Mapping. Signals documentation. It’s all secret.’

Aaron exchanged concerned looks with Jason Swift. They had both guessed what was coming next. Senibua from 3 Section was returning with the Vallon from the area around the compromised vehicle. As he moved towards the rest of the platoon down the blue lane, Chalfont-Price swung around abruptly to the nearest man.

‘You!’ he said. He was talking to Gerry McKinley. Aaron guessed that the boss had forgotten, or more likely had never known, McKinley’s name. ‘Norfolk Man. Grab the Vallon and Barma your way out to my Bergen, would you?’

McKinley blinked at him.

Aaron coughed a little and then said: ‘Sir, since it’s getting dark we should clear as much of the area around the Mastiff as we can now.’

The boss turned to him.

‘I don’t think you understand, Corporal. That Bergen is vulnerable to attack and it contains compromising information. Retrieving it must be a priority.’

There was a silence. Then Senibua started passing McKinley the protection kit.

‘Sir, McKinley did a long stint on the Vallon earlier,’ said Aaron. McKinley and Senibua had both trained extensively on the mine detector and were probably the fastest men in the platoon on it if there were no sappers around. But you couldn’t keep twenty men hanging about while two did all the work, not when most had taken some level of Vallon training.

‘I’ll go, sir,’ said Jason Swift.

‘No,’ said Aaron. It was daft to send a corporal on the boss’s Bergen mission. He looked around at the men to choose someone else.

‘I’ll go,’ offered Jonas.

But McKinley was already putting on the protection.

‘I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘It’s better than sitting here and just waiting.’

‘What happened to those mine-protection pelvic overpants we trialled back on the Plain?’ asked Jonas.

‘Yeah, it would have been a lot more useful to trial them here,’ said Senibua.

‘I don’t need them. I’ll go careful.’ McKinley took the visor.

‘I’ve got the Vallon set high,’ Senibua said, ‘or every little bit of shrapnel sets it off.’

‘Yeah, I’ll keep it high or it’ll take me all night to get to the Bergen,’ agreed McKinley.

He set off down the blue-sprayed path. The others watched him. He reached the damaged Mastiff and then turned. Swinging the Vallon in front of him, he stepped outside the blue paint which marked the safe zone.

The PB was quiet before dark. The drivers had put up bashas and were already asleep under them and so was Doc Holliday. Mal and Angus were cooking. Binns was on stag on the gate, Streaky Bacon had just changed places with Slindon, who was now back up in the tower, and Dave had been inside the compound with Sol reviewing the ammo and listening on the radio to reports of the mighty battles raging at other PBs and back at FOB Nevada. It was the smell of Mal’s cooking which had pulled them outside in time to hear Slindon say: ‘Holy shit!’

And behind his words came the thud of an exploding landmine. Its boom seemed to echo down inside Dave, so deeply that he knew instinctively that it had blasted a hole at the base of his world.

Sol looked up at Slindon.

‘Where was it?’

As if they didn’t know.

‘There! In the dead zone! I saw the flash and now I can see the smoke. Hooooooly shiiiiit.’

Dave did not move. He waited. He listened to the radio so intently that his whole body was nothing more than an appendage attached to his ear.

After a long silence, he heard: ‘This is Charlie One Zero to Zero. IED. Man down. Sit rep to follow. Wait. Out.’ It was a strangely clipped version of Chalfont-Price’s voice.

Dave wasn’t here in the compound any more. He was across the desert, two kilometres away, with two Mastiffs which were fixed in one spot, sitting ducks for any weaponry or explosives the enemy cared to unleash on them. The anxious faces of his men gathered around him brought him back to the present, to the compound, to the sound of his own voice moaning: ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck,’ to the knowledge that he was here, not there. And if he had been there, would it have happened? One of his men was down, and, without knowing which one, Dave felt the dead weight on his shoulders.

‘Zero this is Charlie One Zero. Sit rep as at 1745. Zap number MK4452 has been badly injured. Can’t yet assess extent. Lower limb injury. Put tourniquet on his leg himself. Request urgent medical aid at grid 626298.’

‘MK …’ said Dave out loud. He knew whose zap number that was.

‘Gerry! Gerry McKinley!’ shouted the men who stood around him. ‘Shit, Gerry McKinley’s down!’

Quietly, the group was joined by Doc Holliday.

‘He’s not a T4, he’s injured. Lower leg. They’re Barmaring to him,’ Dave said, cutting off the end of his own sentence to listen to the major’s voice in his ear.

‘Zero Alpha to Charlie One Zero, why did he apply his own tourniquet? Can’t you get to him?’ demanded the OC.

‘He was Barmaring into a field.’

‘So you’re Barmaring out to him now, are you?’

‘No, sir, we only had only one working Vallon. And it’s just been blown up with the casualty.’

Dave and the major both gave a sharp intake of breath.

‘Fucking hell,’ said the major. ‘You’ll have to send the men prodding forward slowly on their belt buckles.’

‘Yes, sir. A helicopter would help now, sir.’

‘There are no fucking helicopters!’

‘Sir, the front vehicle is still immobilized. Do you still want me to hold fast until assistance arrives? Or should I now deny the vehicle?’

The major told him to wait. There was a long pause. Finally the radio crackled back into action.

‘Charlie One Zero this is Zero Alpha. You are to remain where you are until I can organize a recovery plan to get you out. Be aware that there are still no helicopters. Be aware that at this location we are under very sustained attack. Be aware also that there is sustained attack at other locations and we have casualties. Out.’

Dave was quick. During the radio silence he had been thinking rapidly and now no more thought was necessary.

He said: ‘Hello Zero Alpha and Charlie One Zero, this is Charlie One One. At this location I have a CMT Class 1. I will now move from here to your grid ref with Vallons to give assistance. I will also bring tow ropes. Will I be able to pull your immobilized vehicle on a straight bar, Charlie One Zero?’

There was no mistaking the relief in Chalfont-Price’s voice.

‘Charlie One One, we are badly in need of Vallons and a class 1 medic and your offer is accepted. I confirm that you will be able to tow the vehicle.’ His voice was shaky, shocked and even, for once, humble. Dave looked up and saw that Doc Holliday was there, nodding.

‘What is your ETA?’ the boss asked anxiously.

Dave said: ‘Well, if you’re prodding your way to the casualty we should be there to help with a Vallon kit before you’ve even finished the job.’

Chalfont-Price did not reply but Dave paused for the major to argue with him. After all, this was a high-risk strategy. He was proposing to leave the PB undermanned and venture, undermanned, into a world of total exposure to the enemy. But without a good medic Gerry McKinley’s chances of survival were insignificant.

He remained braced for a challenge from the major, but, amazingly, none came.

Dave looked around at the waiting men. He spoke quickly and firmly.

‘I want to be out of here in fifteen minutes with both Mastiffs and a tow rope. I’ll go in the first one. I’ll take a gunner, Doc and two more men, one to Barma and one to cover him. In the second wagon we’ll have a driver, a commander and a gunner: that wagon will have to bring back the men from the exploded vehicle. Shit, Sol, that’s not leaving you with enough men here at the base.’

Before he had finished speaking Doc Holliday had melted away again and was even now shuffling around, gathering equipment together for their exodus. His rasping voice suddenly issued from under the basha: ‘I can fire an HMG. And I’m handy with a rifle. So save yourself a man in the first Mastiff.’

Dave nodded.

‘Yeah. Thanks, Doc. And when I think about it, I can command from on top. So I’ll take a driver, you, and two others.’

‘That leaves four men here,’ said Sol.

‘Can you manage?’

‘If you’re quick.’

Dave looked around at the remaining faces. It was easy to tell who wanted to go on the mission and who dreaded they would be picked.

Sol said suddenly: ‘Sarge, there’s only one driver! Reed’s ankle!’

Dave jumped as though Sol had delivered a small electric shock.

‘Can anyone else drive a Mastiff?’

Tiny said: ‘Well, I had some lessons at Catterick …’

‘You were good!’ said Slindon. ‘I remember that. I was useless.’

‘No surprises there, mate,’ Finny told him.

‘It was really basic. I’m not sure I could—’

‘Lancer Reed, take Rifleman Hemmings and give him a five-minute refresher course in driving the Mastiff,’ Dave instructed. Reed started to stagger to his feet. Angus tried to help by grabbing him eagerly and pulling him up.

‘Fuck off, oaf!’ the driver protested, pushing Angry away and hobbling painfully through the compound with Tiny. ‘And as for you driving the fucking thing,’ Reed said, ‘do you know how long it took me just to master reversing? It’s one of the most heavily armoured vehicles on active service but if you think you can just get in and drive it …!’

He limped off, still moaning audibly, Tiny loping awkwardly behind him.

Dave looked around at the other faces.

‘Sol, can you cope with the numbers you’ve got? You can bet that the moment we leave the patrol base, it’s going to come under attack.’

‘The moment you leave the patrol base, you’re going to come under attack,’ Sol corrected him.

‘Yeah, of course. But we’re only going about two k down the track. Since we’ve been dicking it, we won’t need to Barma so we should be there in a few minutes. Then once we reach the relief, we’re safe and you’re going to come under fire.’

‘They’ll throw everything they’ve got at you for two kilometres.’

‘I’m hoping they’re all too busy fighting down at the FOB to come all the way out here.’

‘The enemy has enough guys to phone for reinforcements.’

‘By the time they can mobilize we’ll be over in the Bronx with a tow rope, the Vallons and the medic. And before they can get here we’ll be back at the PB.’

Sol’s eyes rested a moment on Dave.

‘That’s the best scenario,’ he said.

‘Yeah,’ said Dave. He knew he had to prepare for the worst. But what was the worst that could happen? Probably an ambush when they were isolated on the track. Surely they would have reached the relief before the enemy could organize itself to react effectively to their surprise exit?

‘Who, Sarge?’ asked a voice. A keen, urgent soldier’s voice. ‘Who’re you taking?’

‘You, Billy Finn,’ said Dave. ‘You’re gunner on the .50 cal. But when we leave the compound here, I’ll command from on top because I’ll need a good view.’

Finn’s face broke into a smile and he immediately left the group to prepare.

Dave looked at Mal. His mouth was still, while his lean face and dark eyes were saying: ‘Choose me!’ Mal was the sort of fighter Dave wanted for this mission. But he shook his head.

‘I can’t take you, Mal,’ he said. ‘I’d be leaving the PB with no medic.’

He looked away quickly, but not quickly enough to miss Mal’s disappointment.

His eye ran across the line of faces and Jamie Dermott came into his mind. It was times like this you needed an outstanding soldier like Jamie. Each time he looked around for Jamie Dermott and remembered again that he was dead he felt a small shock and he felt it again now.

‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’ll take Finny, Doc Holliday and Angry McCall in the first Mastiff with me and the driver.’

McCall’s face lit up like Christmas lights.

‘Thanks, Sarge!’

He ran off at once.

‘In the second there’ll be Tiny driving, Binns commanding from the front and Bacon on top with a Minimi. That leaves you with two gimpys, Sol.’

He turned to Binns and Bacon, who had not moved, as if Dave was going to give them further orders. Binns’s eyes had opened wide.

‘Get moving, you two,’ Dave told them. ‘You need to work on reversing together because only Streaky on top will be able to see where you’re going. Binman, eat something now and make sure you take plenty of rations.’

‘Yes, Sarge.’ But Dave knew that pale, sickly look meant that Binns was too nervous to eat.

Binns turned to go with Streaky but paused. He said: ‘I’ve never commanded anything before, ever, Sarge.’

‘I know. But I’ve chosen you because I think you can do it. I’ll be just ahead of you in the first wagon and Bacon will be on top with the Minimi.’

‘Yes,’ said Binman. ‘Yes.’

He retreated into the compound, walking awkwardly behind Bacon. As if Dave had just made him into some new, different, Mastiff-commanding Jack Binns and he wasn’t sure how this new Binns walked.

Sol said: ‘Sure you don’t want the other gimpy?’ He looked tired. His solid frame was suddenly smaller.

‘We’ll be OK with a Minimi on one wagon and the .50 cal on the other as long as we stick together.’

Sol nodded.

‘You could be the one taking a big hit back here,’ said Dave. ‘If they realize how short of men you are, they might bombard you instead of ambushing me.’

Sol grimaced. ‘Or they might bombard me as well as ambushing you.’

Dave did not meet his eye for a moment. It was hard enough to go out there undermanned. It was harder still if he went out unsupported by his best corporal. He looked straight at Sol and said: ‘Sol, I’m doing this because McKinley could die if we don’t go.’

‘I know. And I know that we could lose even more men trying to get to him.’

‘It’s a risk we have to take,’ said Dave.

‘Yeah. You’re right. We have to do this.’ Sol managed to grin. An anxious grin, but it was the gesture of support Dave needed.

The men Dave had named were all busy preparing themselves and their weapons for the mission: the PB had turned from a sleepy late-afternoon base to a hive of activity. Soldiers ran around and outside there was more firing, as if the enemy had heard every word Dave had said and was limbering up for a serious battle the moment he drove out of the gates.

Dave was ready to join the men but something was bothering him. The radio had been silent all this time. There had been no further word from the boss. Stranger still, the major, back at the FOB, apparently had no response to his plan at all.

He stared at the radio, as if that would make the major talk to him. It took a moment to realize that there was no light on. The radio was silent because it was dead.

He shouted for a new radio battery, striding off towards the vehicles, and someone threw him a spare. He fixed it into the radio and switched on thankfully.

‘This is Charlie One One to Zero Alpha. Please confirm that you—’

He stopped. The radio was without hiss, crackle or splutter. He shook it a few times. No light.

‘Zero Alpha …?’

The radio threw dead sound back at him. It had not heard his words. It had received none and sent none.

‘Shit!’

He delivered the battery into the hands of Lancer Reed, who was shouting something about clutches or brakes at Tiny. The driver’s bad ankle was elevated at an awkward angle against the side of the Mastiff and he was yelling at Tiny through the open door.

‘What?’ demanded Reed rudely when he was interrupted. Swinging around he realized that it was Dave who had tugged at his arm and quickly added: ‘Sarge?’

‘This fucking battery’s dead too,’ said Dave. He glanced up at Tiny’s face, red, shining and anxious, behind the wheel of the Mastiff.

The Lancer rolled his eyes. ‘I had a nasty feeling someone threw a dodgy one in …’ he admitted, lifting his ankle carefully, with two hands, off the Mastiff and lowering it to the ground.

‘We’ve got three batteries and two of them are down. Just get me the third,’ Dave said.

Reed limped off to the back of the wagon.

‘All right, all right, it’s been on charge.’

‘How long has it been on charge?’ demanded Dave, following him. From the corner of his eye he saw Tiny Hemmings’s long legs stamping on the foot pedals of the Mastiff and his hands busy with levers, practising something Reed had shown him. On top, Streaky was looking behind and directing him on PRR.

‘Good,’ Dave told them approvingly. Except it was just the ghost of a practice. They weren’t really reversing or carrying out any manoeuvre. He looked at his watch and then up in the air to assess the way the sky was thickening into darkness. Last time he had looked the sky had still been a light blue. Now it was navy. Next it would be black. No time for driving lessons.

He became aware that Reed was swearing loudly in the back of the wagon.

‘Fuck, fuck! Who the fuck? What fucker’s fucking done this?’

‘I’m guessing maybe that battery isn’t charged?’ asked Dave, his heart sinking, involuntarily looking back up at the sky to assess it again. Was it darker than it had been a moment ago? How long could they wait for the radio battery to get a bit of charge in it?

But Lancer Reed was howling now: ‘Oh fuuuuuuuck, when I find the fuuuuuucker who did this …!’

His threats brought the busy base to a halt. The enemy continued to fire but no one fired back. People began to gather around the back of the Mastiff; men who stayed in their firing positions strained to hear. Even Hemmings got out of the driver’s seat and Bacon came down from on top. Reed appeared, his face bulging with fury.

‘OK, who did it? Tell me? Which of you little shits decided to charge his iPod or Christ knows what with my inverter? Which of you bastards done it? Come on, own up!’

The men stared at him silently.

Lancer Dawson appeared, his hands on his hips, shaking his head.

‘You bastards cannot keep your hands off the inverter, can you? No wonder REME gets so fucking pissed off!’

‘We don’t have time to mess around blaming people,’ said Dave. ‘Right now, just put the battery on charge.’

‘I can’t! Because the fucking inverter’s blown! I can’t charge fuck all!’

There was an awful silence.

‘You can’t charge the radio battery …’ echoed Dave. He looked from Lancer Dawson to Lancer Reed. ‘But don’t we have another inverter?’

The two drivers shook their heads in unison. Dave thought they looked like nodding fucking dogs in the back of someone’s souped-up car.

‘Let’s get this straight,’ he said slowly. ‘You put the radio battery on charge but it didn’t work because—’

‘Because some bastard decided to use my fucking inverter for his own fucking personal use when he didn’t know which way round to put the croc clips. So he’s only gone and blown it. That’s all!’

‘Blown it …’ said Dave, his voice very clear and very quiet. ‘And so we have one knackered radio battery and two which aren’t charged and no way of doing anything about it.’

‘Yep!’ chorused the drivers.

Driver Dawson turned to Reed.

‘It was Slindon,’ he said, simply. ‘Before he went on stag he wanted to recharge his iPad. It was fucking Blue Balls Slindon!’

Reed looked as if he was going to boil with rage.

‘I’m going to get him,’ he announced, glancing over at the tower, which was just visible rising above the inner courtyard and where Slindon was even now returning enemy fire, oblivious to the greater fury aimed at him inside the base. ‘And he tried to cover up what he did by putting the croc clips back on so we wouldn’t notice! Fuck it, I don’t care if my ankle’s broken, I’m going to get that little bastard and …’

Dave felt a new, strange quiet.

‘Shuddup, Lancer Reed,’ he said. ‘If anyone’s going to deal with Slindon it’s me. Later. You’re here to deal with the enemy, not my men. I don’t want fighting or arguing inside this base, not with the enemy right outside it.’ He looked around. Doc Holliday was ready, silently waiting with his rifle and day sack by the other wagon.

‘Are you still going?’ asked Sol. ‘With no radio?’

‘Yes,’ said Dave, glancing up once more at the sky. ‘My last radio message was to the boss that we’re on our way with a medic for McKinley. So that’s what we’re doing. Get ready to open the gates.’

Two men ran to the gates. Those who were going put on night-vision goggles and scrambled on board the vehicles. Angus got into the first Mastiff while Finn was up on top with the HMG. Lancer Dawson started the engine. Binns and Bacon high-fived before climbing into the second wagon.

‘Good luck, Streaky,’ said Binns, his voice bleak.

‘Good luck, Binman, my friend, I mean Commander Binns. Remember I’m just on top!’

‘Yeah. Remember I’m just in front.’

They gave each other grim half-grins and then took up their positions. At the front of their Mastiff, Tiny succeeded in starting the engine. He gave Dave a surprised thumbs-up.

‘Go for it, Sarge,’ said Sol.

‘See you in an hour if it all goes according to plan,’ said Dave. ‘As soon as air support can take off again they’ll get here when they realize we’ve lost comms. They could be here before we’re back.’

‘Yeah,’ agreed Sol. He looked unconvinced but held his hand out to Dave. ‘Good luck, Sarge.’

Dave climbed into the back of the first wagon. Angus, Doc and Finn were sitting there and the door slammed shut behind him.

‘Ammo’s ready for you on the HMG, Sarge,’ said Finn.

‘You’re at the front with the driver,’ Dave told him. Finn unstrapped himself and clambered into the front seat and Dave took up his position on the plate which raised him up behind the HMG. He had a 360-degree view. He thought to himself that he should command more often from up here.

Dave looked down at Sol, who raised a hand.

‘OK, open the gates and let’s go,’ he said on PRR.

Dave’s last sight in the base was Sol’s broad face distorted with concern. Well, for Chrissake, Dave thought as Lancer Dawson drove the Mastiff up to the gates, we’re going two k up the track and it’s been dicked so nothing’s going to blow up in our faces. We just have to pick up a casualty, some men and a broken-down truck and drive back again. It’s not much different from picking up a Chinese takeaway and rushing home to eat it before it can go cold. So what’s all the fucking fuss about?

But Dave’s stomach ached and churned as the gates began to swing apart. He glanced at his watch again. It was less than fifteen minutes since he had first formulated the rescue plan. In that time the temperature had fallen and the sky had deepened through many shades of blue. The first stars were visible overhead. A faint crescent moon looked like a fingernail someone had bitten off and thrown skywards. This twilight would turn to darkness in just a few more minutes. It would be pitch black even before they reached the casualty. Night-vision goggles? Check. He knew they were in the day sack in the canoe bag along with the camera Jenny had given him.

The gates were wide enough now and before them the desert glimmered to one side. Ahead the leafy Green Zone looked like an immense streak of darkness. Creating a vast bubble of dust around them, they thundered out on to the track.