They drove fast, without stopping. Mac felt the familiar drop in his mood following the adrenalin high of the action, but Logan still seemed to be buzzing, cranking up the music and drumming his fingers on the steering wheel as he drove.
‘Man, that was something,’ he said, as they cleared the last reaches of Najibullahkhan Kalay. ‘You did real good. That guy with the pitchfork, he nearly took you out.’
‘You saw?’ said Mac.
‘Yeah, as we came up to the house. I would have taken a shot, but you were blocking him.’
Mac rubbed his eyes. They felt gritty. It didn’t sit particularly comfortably with him, killing another human – even though he knew the man would have shown no hesitation about doing the same to him. He drank some water and wished he could sleep, but Logan needed his eyes on the roadsides.
Baz was doing what she could for Kaminski in the back of the Surf. She gave him water, which he drank greedily, and food, which he was only able to pick at. She tried to give a couple of flesh wounds a cursory clean, but really they needed to be checked over by a doctor as soon as possible. Something that would have to wait until they reached Lashkar Gah.
Though none of his injuries appeared life-threatening, the Canadian reporter was almost certainly suffering from emotional shock. He didn’t speak and every bump in the road seemed to make him fearful, gripping the edge of the seat with white knuckles and constantly looking around for threats. Dehydrated and confused, he seemed to be taking little comfort in the fact that he’d been rescued – and was probably finding it difficult to process what was happening.
Mac twisted in his seat to look at Kaminski. The man was shivering.
‘Baz, can you reach into the back and grab a survival blanket?’
Baz nodded and unclipped her seatbelt so she could delve into the space behind her. She spent a minute rifling through Logan’s trauma pack until she found a polythene-wrapped silver blanket.
Mac turned back to the road ahead.
‘What the hell is that?’
Beyond Ginger’s vehicle, which was leading the convoy, it looked as if the road was blocked by a military checkpoint. It certainly hadn’t been there when they’d come down the highway the previous day. He grabbed the Motorola from the console between his and Logan’s seats.
‘Golf, this is Mike. Am I seeing a fucking mirage or is that a Brit checkpoint up ahead?’
‘Mike, this is Golf. You’re not seeing things – it’s real.’
Ginger’s Hilux was slowing down.
‘Ain’t no Brits in Helmand,’ said Logan. ‘Weapons ready – I don’t like this.’
What the hell was going on? They were only a kilometre and a half out of Najibullahkhan Kalay – it seemed like a lot of interest for one small village.
Mac pulled the Krinkov he’d taken in the raid out of the footwell. The armed men at the checkpoint seemed to multiply, emerging from a couple of WMIKs and a six-wheel Pinzgauer all-terrain vehicle, as if they were expecting trouble.
‘Mike, this is Golf. Can confirm visual on 1 Para personnel.’
Mac craned his neck to the side to see beyond the Hilux. Ginger was right. He could now see a couple of men wearing maroon berets, with red DZ Flashes on their sleeves. Curiouser and curiouser.
‘Doesn’t make sense,’ he said to Ginger over the radio. ‘1 Para aren’t even out here, are they? And they certainly don’t have Pinzgauers.’
There was a moment’s silence as Ginger thought. ‘Shit. Heard a rumour they just deployed out here to support UKSF ops.’
So they’d stumbled into the middle of something big, some sort of covert Special Forces operation.
The Para at the checkpoint waved them to a halt.
‘Fuck me backwards, it’s the Head.’ Mac could hear trepidation in Ginger’s voice over the radio. What did he mean? What was the head?
Ginger got out of the lead vehicle and Mac followed suit, walking forward to join the conversation.
‘Hey, Head, didn’t expect to see you out here.’
‘Fuck! The ginger minger, as I live and die.’ Mac didn’t care for his tone – dripping with menace and sarcasm. ‘Didn’t think we’d see you again. After what happened.’
Ginger’s face darkened with anger. Mac knew there’d been some sort of trouble at around the time Ginger left the regiment, but he’d never pried into the exact details.
‘You know it had nothing to do with me,’ said Ginger through gritted teeth.
‘That’s where we’ll have to agree to disagree. Anyway…’ The Head, conscious of Mac hanging on their every word, clearly wanted to steer things onto a different subject now. He looked at their convoy, taking particular interest in Logan, who was now standing outside his vehicle, leaning nonchalantly on the driver’s door. ‘Quite a band of renegades. Mind filling me in on exactly what you’re up to?’
Mac stepped forward. ‘Yes, chum, I do mind. None of your bloody business.’
This wasn’t the answer the Head was expecting. He gripped his rifle a little tighter. ‘Listen, mate. We’re on an operation and we don’t need a bunch of amateurs like you fucking it up for us. A hostage’s life could be on the line, so I need you to get the fuck out of here.’
Realisation dawned on Ginger’s face. ‘You’re here for Kaminski, aren’t you?’
The Head gulped air like a fish gulping water. ‘How the hell…’
Mac laughed out loud. ‘Right, you might as well pack up and go home.’ He turned to Ginger. ‘Why’s he called the Head? Not on account of his brainpower.’
‘No chance,’ said Ginger. ‘It’s because of the size of his fucking head. Like one of those bloody orcs in Lord of the Rings.’
It was the Head’s turn to fume. He glared at Ginger with undisguised hatred. ‘You saying you got Kaminski?’
‘Could be,’ said Ginger.
The Head’s eyes widened. ‘Stay here a mo, I’ve got to get the boss down here.’ Turning his back on them, he spoke quietly and urgently into his radio. Mac heard the crackle of someone replying, but he couldn’t make out what was said. The Head turned back to them. ‘Right, my boss wants a word. He’ll be here in a moment.’
‘Fine,’ said Mac. ‘We’ll wait.’
The Head pursed his lips with a frown, looking at Mac as if he was stupid. ‘Of course you’ll bloody wait.’
Mac looked back towards the Surf and gave Logan a nod to tell him everything was cool. But that didn’t mean they wanted to hang around long – they needed to get Kaminski some proper medical treatment, and for all they knew, the guys they’d hit might have got themselves together to come after them by now. He looked at the WMIKs and the Pinzgauer that formed the British cordon. If anyone was coming for them, at least the odds were now stacked in their favour.
At that moment, another dusty WMIK came up past the convoy and drew to a stop. A bearded figure emerged, heavily laden with field gear, all coated with fine desert moon dust. The only clean thing about him was the UCIW, a shortened version of the M4, that he was holding as naturally as if it was an extension of his right arm. There was something familiar about his walk.
‘Mac?’
‘Sharky?’
‘Jesus wept.’
‘You’re like a fucking bad penny, turning up wherever I go,’ said Mac, slapping Paul ‘Sharky’ Benchley on the shoulder.
‘More like your lucky charm!’
Mac had worked counterterrorism with Sharky in London back in the day, when he was in the Met – and this was the second time he’d run into him since arriving in Afghanistan.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Not the way it works,’ said Sharky. ‘I get to ask the questions.’ He turned to the Head. ‘Can you get a brew on for everyone?’
If it was possible, the Head looked even more furious than before. ‘Sure, boss.’ He slouched off, muttering grumpily.
Sharky watched him go, waiting until he was out of earshot.
‘That little turd causing you problems?’ he said, eyeing up Mac and Ginger.
‘Nothing we couldn’t handle,’ said Mac.
‘So whose is the Pinzgauer?’ said Ginger. ‘Not your standard British-issue kit.’
Sharky laughed. ‘Sure isn’t. It’s on loan from the Kiwis. 1 Para Support Group are trialling it.’
‘Sweet,’ said Ginger, staring at the vehicle with undisguised longing.
‘Okay,’ said Sharky, his expression turning serious. ‘Now tell me if what he said is true. You’ve rescued a hostage from the Taliban? Who the fuck are you working for?’
‘I work for Well Diggers,’ said Ginger. ‘One of our blokes has been taken…’
‘So you mounted your own rescue? Jesus Christ.’ He looked at Mac. ‘You can’t have been thinking straight.’
Mac shrugged. ‘Successful mission.’
‘Apart from the fact we picked up the wrong guy,’ said Ginger.
Sharky looked incredulous.
‘Yeah, faulty intelligence,’ said Mac. ‘We hauled a man out, but he turned out not to be our man.’
‘So who did you get?’
‘Canadian journo – Brad Kaminski – taken down in Kandahar a couple of months back.’
Sharky’s shoulders started to shake, and he let out a deep rumble of laughter. He clapped Mac across the shoulders.
‘Thanks, mate. You’ve just done my job for me. Where is he?’