Энди МакНаб. Кризис четвертого (engl)

        Andy McNab. Crisis four

CRISIS FOUR [030-011-4.5]

     By: Andy McNab

     Category: fiction spies
     Synopsis:
     Andy McNab's  British  intelligence agent,  Nick Stone, is enough  of a
rebel to be denied a permanent place on the SAS  roster, but  he's dragooned
into a  freelance  assignment with  an ultimatum from his  former employers.
He's to find Sarah Greenwood, a missing agent who's thought to have defected
from the service to aid Muslim militants intent on blowing up the  world, or
go to  prison  and also lose the only other  female  he's ever loved besides
Sarah: a 9-year-old  girl  whose  dead parents, Nick's closest friends, left
her in his care.
     Nick manages  to locate Sarah  without much  difficulty,  but when he's
ordered to kill  her, he has a change of  heart.  The hunter turns  into the
hunted, as Nick and Sarah flee her hiding place in the North  Carolina woods
and  try to outwit  the police, the  intelligence  services, and  a team  of
assassins directed by Osama  bin Laden. As they make their way to Washington
to  preempt a plan to kill Yasser Arafat and Benjamin Netanyahu,  Nick tries
to sort out his  conflicted feelings about Sarah. Is she part of bin Laden's
team, a so-called runner who's a threat to the  CIA and the SAS, or is she a
loyal operative trying to outwit a highly placed traitor in the White House?
     Crisis  Four is  strong on its depiction of agents  in the field; McNab
excels at describing every last detail of the hunt, the chase, the kill.

        ALSO BY ANDY MCNAB
     Nonfiction
        BRAVO TWO ZERO
        IMMEDIATE ACTION
     Fiction REMOTE CONTROL
     'mi Hem
        BALLANTINE BOOKS
        NEW YORK
     A Ballantine Book The Ballantine Publishing Group
     Copyright 1999 by Andy McNab
     All  rights  reserved under  International  and Pan-American  Copyright
Conventions. Published  in the United States by  The  Ballantine  Publishing
Group,  a  division of Random House, Inc." New York. Originally published in
Great Britain by Bantam Press, a division of Transworld Publishers, in 1999.
     Ballantine and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
     www. random house. com/BB/ Library of Congress Card Number: 00-190285
        ISBN 0-345-42807-2
     Manufactured in the United  States of  America  First American Edition:
July 2000 10 987654321
        IN MEMORY OF EDWARD C.S. HOOPER
        OCTOBER 30, 1979-APRIL 15, 1999
        CRISIS FOUR
     TMOmV, OCTOBER 16. 1995
     The Syrians don't fuck around if they think you're  invading their  air
space.  Within minutes of crossing the border, your aircraft will be greeted
by a three-ship intercept, flying so close you can  wave at the pilots. They
won't wave back;  they've come to get a visual ID on you, and  if they don't
like what they see they'll hose you down with their air to-air missiles.
     he  same  rule  doesn't  apply,  of  course,  when friendly  commercial
aircraft blip  onto their radar screens, and that  was why our  team of four
had opted for this  particular method of infiltration. If  Damascus  had had
the slightest clue about what was about to happen aboard our British Airways
flight from  Delhi  to  London, their fighters would have been scrambled the
moment the Boeing 747 left Saudi Arabian territory.
     I was twisting and turning, trying to  get comfortable, feeling jealous
of  all the people  sitting  upstairs behind  the driver,  probably on their
fifth gin and tonic since take off,  watching their second movie and tucking
into their third helping ofboeufen croute.
     Reg  1  was  in  front of  me.  Six feet two,  and  built  like a brick
shithouse,  he was  probably  having  an  even  worse time  in  the  cramped
conditions.
     His  curly  black hair, going a bit gray at the sides, was all over the
place. Like me, before I  left in '93, he had been  selected  to do work for
the  intelligence and security services, including the  sort of  job for the
U.S.
     that  Congress  would never sanction. I had done  similar  jobs  myself
while in the Regiment, but this was the first I'd  been  on since becoming a
K. Given who we were going in against, none of us was giving odds on whether
we'd get to do another.
     I  glanced across at  Sarah,  to my right in the semidarkness. Her eyes
were  closed, but even in the  dim light I could  see she wasn't looking her
happiest. Maybe she just didn't like  flying without complimentary champagne
and slippers.
     It had been a while since I'd last  seen her, and the only  thing about
her  that had changed was her  hair.  It  was still  very  straight,  almost
Southeast Asian, though dark brown, not black. It had always been short, but
she'd prepared for this operation by having it cut into a bob with a fringe.
     She had strong, well-defined features, with large brown eyes above high
cheekbones, a  nose  that was slightly too large, and  a mouth  that  nearly
always  looked too  serious. Sarah would  not  be troubled in her old age by
laughter lines. When it was  genuine, her  smile was  warm and friendly, but
more often it appeared to be only going  through the motions. And  yet, just
when you  were thinking  this, she'd find  the oddest thing amusing and  her
nose would  twitch,  and her whole face would crease into a radiant,  almost
childlike,  grin. At times  like  that  she looked even more beautiful  than
usual maybe too beautiful. That was sometimes a danger  in our line of work,
as men could never resist  a second  glance, but at thirty-five years of age
she had  learned  to use  her looks  to her advantage within the service. It
made her even more of a bitch than most people thought she was.
     It  was  no good, I couldn't get comfortable. We'd been on the aircraft
for nearly  fifteen  hours and my body was starting to  ache. I  turned  and
tried the  left side.  I couldn't see Reg 2, but I knew he was to my left in
the gloom somewhere. He was easy to distinguish from Reg  1, being the  best
part  of  a foot  shorter  and with  hair  that looked  like  a  fistful  of
dark-blond wire wool. The only thing I  knew about them apart from their zap
numbers  was that, like  me, they had  both been circumcised within the last
three  weeks and that, like  mine, their  underwear came from Tel Aviv.  And
that was all I wanted  to know  about them, or  about Regs 3  to 6  who were
already in-country, waiting for us even though one of them, Glen, was an old
friend.
     I found myself facing Sarah again. She was rubbing  her eyes  with  her
fists, like  a sleepy child. I tried to doze off; thirty minutes later I was
still kidding  myself I was asleep when I got a kick on the back of my legs.
It was Sarah.
     I sat up in my sleeping bag and peered into the semidarkness. Three
        CRISIS FOUR 5
     loadies (load  masters) were  moving  around  with  orienteering lights
attached  to their heads, glowing a dim red  so  as not to destroy our night
vision.
     Each  of them had an umbilical  cord trailing from  his  face mask, and
their hands  moved  instinctively  to make sure it  didn't  get  snagged  or
detached from the aircraft's oxygen supply.
     I  unzipped the  bag  and,  even  through my  all-weather  sniper suit,
immediately felt the freezing cold in the unpressurized 747 cargo hold. None
of  the  passengers or cabin  crew would have  known there were  people down
here,  tucked away in the  belly of the aircraft. Nor would our  names  have
appeared anywhere on a manifest.
     I folded  the bag in half, leaving inside  the two  "aircrew  bags" I'd
filled during the flight--plastic bags with a  one-way valve that you insert
yourself into and piss away to your  heart's content.  I wondered  how Sarah
had been getting on.  It  was bad enough  for me  because my  cock was still
extremely  sore, but it must be hard being female aircrew on a  long  flight
with  a  device  designed only  for  males--and the  female  commander of  a
deniable op.  I put  a Post-It on my mental bulletin board, reminding myself
to ask her  how  she  got  around  the problem. That was  if we survived, of
course, and were still on speaking terms.
     I  could  never  remember which  was  starboard or port; all I knew was
that, as you  looked  at  the aircraft from the front, we were in  the small
hold at the  rear  and  the door was on the left-hand  side.  I  clutched my
oxygen tube  as a lo  adie crossed over  it, and adjusted my mask as his leg
caught it, pulling it slightly from my face. The  inside was wet, clammy and
cold now the seal had been broken.
     I picked  up my Car 15, a version  of the M16  Armalite  5.56mm with  a
telescopic butt and a  shorter barrel, cocked it and applied the safety. The
Car had a length of  green para cord tied to it like a sling; I strapped  it
over my left shoulder so the barrel faced down and it ran along the  rear of
my body. The rig (parachute) would go over that.
     I pushed  my hand  under the sniper suit to get hold of the Beretta 9mm
that was  on a leg holster against my right  thigh. I cocked that,  too, and
pulled  back the top slide a few millimeters  to check the chamber.  Turning
the weapon so it caught one of the loadies' red glows, I saw  the glint of a
correctly fed round, ready to go.
     This was  my  first  "false  flag"  job  posing as a member  of Israeli
special forces, and as  I adjusted my leg  straps I wished I'd  had a little
more time to recover  from the  circumcision. It hadn't healed as quickly as
we'd  been told. I looked around me as we got our kit on, hoping  the others
were in as much pain.
     We were  about to carry  out a  "lift" to find out what  the West's new
bogeyman, Osama Bin Laden,  a Saudi  multimillionaire  turned terrorist, was
getting up to  in Syria.  Satellite  photography had shown earth  moving and
other heavy equipment  from Bin Laden's construction company near the source
of the river Jordan. Downstream lay Israel, and if its  main source of water
was about to be dammed, diverted or otherwise tampered with, the West needed
to know. They feared a repeat of  the 1967 war, and with Bin Laden around it
was  never  going to be a good  day out.  He  hadn't  been  dubbed America's
"public enemy number one" by Clinton for nothing.
     Our task  was to lift Osama's  right-hand  man  known to us only as the
"Source" for op sec (operational security) reasons from on site. His private
jet had been spotted at a nearby airfield. The  U.S. needed to know what was
happening  in  Syria, and, more to the point, maybe learn  how to  lay their
hands on Osama.  As the  briefing  guy  had  said, "Bin  Laden  represents a
completely  new  phenomenon:  non-state-supported  terrorism  backed  by  an
extremely rich  and religiously  motivated leader with  an intense hatred of
the West, mainly America, as well as Israel and the secular Arab world.
     He must be stopped."
     Once  ready and  checked  by  the loadies, it  was just a  question  of
holding on to the airframe and waiting. There was nothing to do for the next
few minutes but daydream or get  scared. Each of us  was in his  or  her own
little world now.  Before any operation some people are frightened, some are
excited. Now and  again I could see reflections  from the red flashlights in
people's eyes;  they were staring at  their  boots or  at  some  other fixed
point, maybe thinking  about their wives, or girlfriends, or  kids,  or what
they were going to do after this, or maybe even wondering what the fuck they
were doing here in the first place.
     Me,  I  didn't know what to think really. I'd  never  been able to  get
sparked up about the thought of dying and not seeing anyone else again.
     Not even  my wife, when I was married. I always  felt I  was a  gambler
with  nothing to lose. Most people who gamble do so with the things that are
important  to them; I  gambled knowing that if I  lost I wouldn't  break the
bank.
     I watched  the  glowing redheads  pack  our  kit away  into  the  large
aluminium Lacon  boxes.  Once  we'd been thrown out and  the door had closed
again, they'd  stow all  other evidence that we had  been there in the boxes
and just sit it out until they were taken care of in London.
     Two of the loadies  started a sweep with their flashlights to make sure
there was nothing loose that could be sucked out as soon as the door opened.
Nothing must compromise this job.
     We  got  the order to  turn  on  our own oxygen,  disconnect  from  the
aircraft supply and stand by.  Sarah was standing in front of Reg 1, who was
to tandem jump with  her. She had never failed to  amaze me. She was  an  IG
(Intelligence Group), the  very top of the  intelligence-service food chain,
people who usually spend their lives in embassies, posing as diplomats.
     Their  lives should be  one  long  round of  receptions and  recruiting
sources through the cocktail circuit, not running around, weapon strong.
     Then  again, Sarah  had always  made a  point  of  finishing  the  jobs
herself.
     She was  masked and goggled up,  looking  for all the world as if she'd
done  this a thousand times. She hadn't; her first  jump ever had been three
weeks before, but she took her job so seriously that she'd probably read ten
books  on  free fall and knew more facts and figures than all  of us lot put
together.
     She  turned  and looked for me. We  got eye-to-eye  and I  gave her  an
everything-is-OK nod.  After all, that  was part of this job, to  look after
her.
     The lo adie motioned us toward the door.  Our berg ens each  containing
forty pounds of equipment, were  hanging from our rigs and down the back  of
our legs. We waddled forward like a gaggle of geese, putting  weight on each
foot in turn. Thankfully  the  berg ens hadn't needed to be fully  laden. If
everything went to plan, we'd be on the ground for only a few hours.
     There was  a  pause  of  about  five seconds as the lo adie by the door
spoke into his  mike  to the British Airways  navigator,  then he nodded  to
himself and swung  into  action.  The  door was about half  the  size  of an
average up-and-over garage door. Pulling out all  the levers, he swung  them
counterclockwise, then pulled the  handles toward  him. Even  though I had a
helmet on, I heard the massive rush of air, and then a gale was thrashing at
my sniper suit. Where the door had been there was now just a black hole.
     The  tags  on the  aircraft's luggage containers fluttered frantically.
The freezing  cold wind whipped at the parts of my face that weren't covered
by my mask. I pulled my jockey's goggles over my  eyes, fighting against the
blast, gripping hard on to the airframe.
     Seven miles below  us  lay Syria--enemy  territory. We  did  our  final
checks. I wanted to get this jump out of the way, get the job done and be in
Cyprus for tea and toast tomorrow morning.
     We rammed up close  to each other at the exit, the roar of the wind and
the jet engines so loud I  could  hardly think. At last  came a handheld red
light from the  lo adie We  all joined in with a  loud  scream: "Red on, red
on!" I didn't know why, no one could hear anything; it was just something we
always did.
     The lo adie light changed to green and he shouted, "Green on!"
     He moved back as we all shouted to ourselves, "Ready!"
     We rocked forward, trying to scream above the roar: "Set!"
     Then we rocked back.
     "Go!"
     Out and out  we  spilled, four people  on three  rigs,  tumbling toward
Syria.  Being the  last man, I was  pushed by the lo adie to make sure there
wasn't too much of a gap between us in the sky.
     You  can now free  fall  from an aircraft  flying at high altitude  and
miles from the target area  and land with pinpoint accuracy. The HAHO  (high
altitude, high  opening) technique calls for  extreme  weather clothing  and
oxygen equipment  to  survive temperatures as low  as minus 40 C, especially
when a fifty-mile cross-country descent can take nearly two hours.
     It has now  largely replaced the old HALO (high  altitude, low opening)
approach, for the simple reason that,  instead of hurtling toward the ground
at  warp speed, with no real idea of where you're going to land or where the
rest of the  team are once you're on the ground, you can glide  gently  onto
the target sitting in a comfortable rig. Unless, of course, a man in a white
coat has recently clipped a bit off the end of your cock.
     I felt the  jet stream pick me up and take  me with it. As the aircraft
thunders  over  you at 500 miles an hour you  think you're  going to collide
with the tailplane, but in fact you're falling and never hit it.
     Once  I  was out of  the jet stream it  was time to sort  myself out. I
could tell by the  wind force,  and the fact that I  could see the  aircraft
lights flashing three or four hundred feet above me, that I was upside down.
I spread my  arms and legs  and arched  my back, bunging myself over into  a
stable position.
     I looked around--moving your  head during free  fall  is about the only
thing that doesn't have  an effect  on your stability--trying to  see  where
everyone else was. I could just about  see a figure  over  on  my right-hand
side; I didn't know who it was,  and it didn't matter. As  I looked up I saw
the taillights of the 747 disappearing  way above us, and downstairs, on the
floor, there was nothing, I couldn't see a single light.
     All I  could hear  was the rush of air; it was  like sticking your head
out of a car traveling at 120 mph. What I had to do now was  keep stable and
wait for the AOD (automatic opening device) to do its bit. The drill is just
to assume that it's going to work, but to  get in the pull position  just in
case. I thought, Fuck that. I knew my pull height--30,000 feet, an 8,000foot
drop. I moved my left hand up, just above my head, and my right hand down to
the pull handle. There has to be symmetry with everything. If you're in free
fall  and  put just one hand out, that  will hit the air and you're going to
tumble.
     I could see the needle on  my wrist alti. I was past 34,000. Instead of
waiting to feel the pull of  the AOD  on the  pin, I kept  on looking at the
alti, and bang on  30,000 feet I pulled the handle  and pushed  my  hands up
above my head, which made me backslide, which meant  the air would catch the
drogue chute to bring the main pack out. I felt it move and rock me slightly
from side to side. Then  bang--it's like running into a brick wall. You feel
like one of those cartoon characters that's just been crushed with a rock.
     I still wasn't  particularly worried  where  everybody else  was in the
sky, I just wanted to sort myself out. I  could hear another canopy cracking
open, and I knew that it was near. I looked up to make sure  I  had a canopy
rather than a big bag of washing above me. The middle three or four cells of
the big mattress  were full of air. I grabbed hold of  the brake  lines, the
two handles  attached to para cord on  each  side of the canopy,  and ripped
them from the velcro that held them  in  position on the webbing straps just
above  my shoulder and started pulling. There are seven cells to the canopy;
by pumping you expose the end cells to air to quicken the process.
     I had a look around me  now, trying to find out where I was in relation
to  the  others. Fuck, my cock  hurt!  The  leg straps had  worked their way
farther up my leg and it felt like someone was giving my dick a squeeze with
a pair of pliers.
     Above me I could see Sarah and Reg 1.1 must have had  a slow opening of
the  end cells,  as they should have been below me.  They were now spiraling
past me, his  right arm pulling the brake line down  to get into his correct
position  in the  stack.  Sarah  just hung there  like  a small child as  he
slotted in between me and Reg 2, who was below me somewhere.
     Being  the last man  in the stack, it was a piece of piss for me; I was
just bringing up the rear. As long as I was directly above and just touching
the  rear of the canopy below me,  I wasn't going to get lost, unless  Reg 1
got lost with Sarah. Reg 1 would be doing the same to Reg  2, who was at the
bottom; he'd be doing all the navigating and we'd just be checking.  And  if
the worse came to the worst, we could actually shout to each other once we'd
got off oxygen.
     Reg  2  would  be  looking  at  the  display  on  his sat  nav  (global
positioning device, via satellite). All he wanted was one bar in  the center
of the display.
     Technology is wonderful. We were traveling at about thirty-five  knots;
the canopy gives you twenty knots,  and we were running with the wind, which
was fifteen.
     I  checked my  height--just over twenty-eight  grand--good. Checked the
sat nav, good. That was it. Everything was done: the oxygen was  working, we
were stacked. Time to  get comfy. I got hold of the risers that attached the
canopy to the rig,  and pulled myself up and wiggled my legs to move the leg
straps halfway down my thighs.
     For the next thirty minutes  we minced along  the sky,  controlling the
rig,  checking  height and the sat nav.  I  started to see lights now. Small
towns and villages with streetlights following the roads out of the built-up
areas for about half a mile, then darkness, only car lights giving away  the
road.
     I looked at my alti. I was  about 16,200 feet. I  thought, I'll just go
for  a few more minutes and  I'll take my oxygen mask off. The fucking thing
was  a pain  in  the  ass.  If  I  started feeling the  effects  of  hypoxia
dizziness, I'd bring the mask back  to  my face and take a  couple  of  deep
breaths. By now I was just under  16 grand; my mouth was full of saliva  and
it felt all clammy. I got hold of the clip with my right hand and pulled the
press  stud off, and  the thing just  fell down and dangled by the left-hand
side of my face.
     I could feel the cold around my  mouth where  all the moisture from the
mask had been. I was freezing, but it was nice; I could stretch my mouth and
chew my jaw around a bit.
     After about ten  minutes I checked  my alti  again: 6,500 feet, time to
start working.  I  put  on my NVGs  (night viewing  goggles), which had been
hanging around my neck on para cord and started looking for the flash  on an
IR Firefly (infrared detecting system). It  was the same flashing light that
you would expect to see on the top  of  a tall tower to warn  aircraft,  but
these are just little handheld things that throw out a brilliant quick flash
of light, through an IR filter. No one would see it apart from us--or anyone
else with NVG, of  course.  I kept looking in the darkness. It would be easy
to pick out. Bang--there it was to my half right.
     We were  coming in  on finals. I  was concentrating  on keeping  myself
positioned right on top and to the rear of Reg 1 's canopy, which was larger
than mine  as he  had the  extra weight to  jump with. I  heard him below me
sounding like a nursery-school teacher.
     "Right,  any minute now.  Keep your legs bent and under  your hips. Are
your legs bent?"
     She must  have acknowledged. I pulled the NVGs off my face and let them
hang.
     "OK,  put your  hands  up by me."  I imagined  her  with her hands  up,
holding Reg 1  's wrists on the brake lines to  keep them out of the way  so
she didn't damage herself if they took a bad landing.
     I couldn't see any ground yet--it was far too dark--but I heard:
     "Standby, standby. Flaring soon ... flaring ... flaring ..."
     Then the sound  of his bergen thumping into the ground, and his command
to Sarah: "Now!"
     His canopy started to  collapse below me as I  flew past. My bergen was
dangling by the straps from my  feet; I kicked it off and it fell beneath me
on a three-meter line.  As soon as  I heard it land, I flared,  too. Hitting
the deck, I ran along for three or four steps, turned  quickly and pulled my
lines to collapse the canopy.
     A body appeared  behind me. Regs 3 to 6 had been on the ground for five
days preparing the job and were manning the  DZ  (drop zone). Fuck knows how
they'd inserted in-country, and I didn't care.
     "You all right, mate?" I recognized his voice. Glen, the only one whose
name I  knew, was the ground  commander. He looked  as if you'd  hear steely
Clint Eastwood when he opened his mouth, but in fact what you got was softly
spoken David Essex.
     "Yeah. Fine, mate, fine."
     "Let's get all this shit off."
     Within minutes our rigs, sniper suits and oxygen kit had been stowed in
large bin liners and we were aboard two Toyota Previas,  the drivers wearing
NVGs, bouncing along the desert floor, heading for a light industrial estate
on the outskirts of a town less than a mile from  the Golan Heights  and the
border with Israel. All  of us  were dressed the same, in green jump  suits,
with  civilian clothes underneath as part of  the  E&E  (escape and evasion)
plan, plus belt kit and our own  choice of boots. Mine  were a pair  of Nike
hiking boots, which we'd checked were available in any Tel Aviv main street.
     Glen and  I  went way back. We had done Selection together in the early
Eighties, and had got  to  know each other  later while chatting up the same
woman, who was now his wife. He was the same  age as me-late-thirties--had a
swarthy Mediterranean look and a few moles on his face which  were sprouting
hair, and he always needed a shave. Constantly smiling, he was one of life's
good  guys--in love  with  his wife  and two  kids,  in  love with his  job,
probably even in love with his car and the cat.
     For the  last five days they'd been  preparing and placing an explosive
attack on an electricity substation, which was going to close down  the town
while we hit the target, and I  knew  that  Glen  would have  enjoyed  every
minute of it.
     "We're at the drop-off point."
     If  we  had  to talk it would be in a low  whisper from  now on. As  we
clambered from the vehicles I motioned to  Sarah for both of us to stand out
of the way. We  got underneath one  of the small stumpy trees  that made  up
this olive grove, the stars giving us  just enough light  to move in without
bumbling. The thing  I'd always loved  most  about the  Middle  East was the
stars; it felt as if you could see the whole universe, and so clearly.
     The Regs were putting their berg ens on and sorting themselves out.
     The glow  of the  town could be  seen coming from the dead ground about
five K-s beyond the  target. The night air was cold after the warmth of  the
people carrier and I couldn't wait to get moving.
     The driver came over, holding up a small magnetic box.
     "The keys," he said.
     "Both vehicles, rear near-side wheel arch."
     I glanced  at  Sarah as we both nodded. She had a  smaller bergen  than
mine, containing  her trauma  kit, with  fluid,  and anything else she would
need. Once the patrol kit was packed, what else went in was down to personal
choice.
     Glen joined us with a jolly "You OK?," as if he felt he had to  bolster
Sarah's morale.
     She looked at him blankly and said, "Let's get on with it, shall we?"
     There was  a pause as he  let the tone of her reply sink in.  He didn't
like it.
     "OK, let's go." He pointed at her.
     "You, behind me. Nick, behind her, OK?"
     On the  track  between  the olive groves  I could  see  shadowy figures
shaking out into single file. My only job was to protect  her; we hadn't let
Glen  in on this, but if there was a drama, the two of us were going to fuck
off sharpish.  We'd just  let them get on with  it and die. As we joined the
snake I  wondered about  the times I'd  done jobs while in the Regiment, not
realizing that no one really cared.
     We moved  off  into the shadows,  weapon  butt in the  shoulder,  index
finger  across the trigger  guard,  thumb  on the  safety catch.  Sarah  was
carrying  only a  Beretta for self-defense. We  were  there to do everything
else for her.
     For about forty minutes we  moved through  wide groves. When we finally
stopped I could hear only the crickets and the wind in the trees.
     Ahead of us  now was the target, a row of six or seven low-level, brick
faced light industrial units  with flat  aluminium roofs  and  windows.  The
entire  complex was  surrounded by a three-meter-high chain-link fence, with
just one  entrance, which was  gated  off for the night. The road was lit by
yellow street lamps every thirty meters, and there were floods on the fronts
of the buildings, facing down the walls and lighting up the shutters.
     There  were  also  lights on  in some of  the  units,  but no  sign  of
movement.
     Apart from the fence there  seemed  to be no  security, which  would be
about right  for units that supposedly housed nothing more serious  than JCB
spares.
     The buildings gave off enough light for  us  to see what we were doing,
but we  were still in the shadows of the grove. Glen came  alongside me  and
said quietly,  "This  is the FRV  (Final Rendezvous). The target  ... if you
look at the nearest building on the left..."
     We were looking at the long sides of three rectangles. He indicated the
closest one.
     "You see the lights on?" I nodded.
     "All right, count  three windows from the left. That's where  we reckon
he is or was last night."  The "reckon" would have been  a bit of a judgment
call:  the latest pictures we  had of  the  Source were three  years old.  I
didn't even know  his name.  Only Sarah did, and  only  she could positively
identify him.
     I could make out two small mobile satellite dishes and a wire half-wave
dipole antenna on the roof, looking like the world's longest washing line.
     You didn't need that lot for road building.
     I sat against a stubby tree  while the patrol prepared itself, bringing
out kit from their  berg ens  very slowly  to eliminate noise. There was  no
light  from the  town to the  north, which  was lost completely  in the dead
ground.
     Reg  1  and  2 checked in with  Glen, then moved  off.  Glen pulled  an
antenna  out  of a green  twelve-by-eight-inch metal box and  began to press
buttons. I didn't have a clue what the  box was  called,  but I knew what it
did. A little red light came up, which no doubt  was a  test to make sure he
had  com  ms  with  whatever  devices  were rigged  up  at  the  electricity
substation that supplied the power  to this area. I imagined they'd be using
a number of small stand-off charges, something about the size of a Coca Cola
can,  to penetrate the cast-steel casings. All they'd need to  do was make a
hole  big enough for  the coolant  to drain out of and the generators  would
quickly burn themselves out.
     Sarah wanted confirmation about the target. She pestered Glen, "Are you
sure that's the building? Are you sure he's in there?" He was already pissed
off with her, and told her politely that she might be in overall command but
he was  the commander on the ground, so shut the fuck up and let  him do his
job. Good one, Glen, I thought.
     We were  kneeling  around him at the  edge of the grove as he  made his
final checks on the target and confirmed the orders with the rest of us.
     There  were  no changes to  the  plan. It was Sarah who would  give the
final Go or No Go now. She nodded at him.
     "OK,  everybody,  here we go." Glen got his box of tricks and pulled up
the antenna the last few inches.
     "Standby, standby ..."  I  heard the  click of a button  being pressed.
There was a delay of about two seconds, then a bright flash in the distance,
beyond the glow from the industrial units.
     Then, after twenty seconds, there was total darkness as the lights went
out in the compound.
     Glen was back to enjoying life, despite Sarah's presence. He grinned.
     "OK, let's go."
     We moved off at a slow jogging pace along the edge of  the  trees. Once
level with Reg  1 and 2,  we turned left  over  the  waste ground  and  went
straight for  the fence.  They were pulling at the straight line of the  cut
they'd made, making a big upside-down V for us to get through.
     We took advantage of the darkness and sprinted  the fifty meters to the
target building. There  was  the  odd  outburst  of  hollering  and shouting
through an open window--nothing  frantic; the voices just sounded pissed off
that the power had  failed, probably halfway through  the Syrian version  of
East Enders. Now and again I saw the glint of flashlights from inside.
     We reached  the edge  of the target building and everybody  got against
the wall,  Glen looking toward  the nearest corner. Around that, to the left
and  next to the  shutters,  was  our entry  point.  Sarah  was  between us,
catching her breath and trying to keep the noise down.
     The other three in the crew were on their  knees, nearer the corner. If
the door was locked they'd have to blow it. They started to get the prepared
charges  from  their  belt  kit. I watched as  they  worked together, slowly
unwinding the det cord, which looked like white washing line, but was filled
with high explosive.
     They stood  up  with  the  charge.  Everything  was  nice and  slow and
controlled.
     As they started to move, the door burst open.
     Voices were shouting in Arabic from around the corner. The  door charge
was quickly placed on the ground. I saw hands reach into belt kits.
     They would have to remove the threat, but quietly.
     The  voices got closer  and closer  and I could hear  the sound of flip
flops slapping against  feet. Two boys rounded the corner  wearing  sandals,
arm  in arm,  both  smoking and still shouting about  something, maybe  what
Grant Mitchell was up to in the Queen Vie.
     Two of the  Regs  climbed aboard them,  and  almost  at once I  heard a
distinctive buzz  and crackle. The boys were getting Tazered  good style, at
the same time as being dragged  out of sight  toward  us. Tazers are  cattle
prods for humans. As the two electrodes touch a body, you press a button and
100,000 volts zap through  the  target. They  are  a great weapon as you can
hold the  victim  at  the same time as you  fuck them  up big time,  without
getting zapped by the current yourself.
     As the blokes got them down on the floor, I could hear them moaning and
groaning  under  the hands that covered their  mouths. They were still being
dealt with as Glen put on his NVGs. We did the same.
     Glen looked back at Sarah to check we were ready. Following his cue, we
moved toward the corner with Sarah still between us. It was now one of those
situations that couldn't be stopped. We just had to get on with it.
     The fuck-it factor had taken over.
     We piled in  through the door. A Reg secured the entry point and waited
for the other two to join him, dragging the two dazed Syrians.  The corridor
was  dark and  silent. In  a loud whisper Glen said, "With me, with me, with
me." We moved  like men possessed down  the breeze-block  passage, the world
through our NVGs looking like a light-green negative film.
     We turned  right, and  through  the windows to our left I could see the
outside of the building; on the other side there were plywood internal doors
leading,  I guessed, to  rooms or offices. The smell of cigarettes, cooking,
coffee  and   the  sweat  of  not  too  much  air  conditioning  was  almost
overpowering.
     We came  to  a  T-junction. Glen  stopped on the  left, Sarah right  up
behind  him. I came up  level, on the right.  I wasn't too sure which way we
were  heading. Glen would tell  me. I looked over  and  he was  moving hisIR
flashlight beam, attached to his weapon, to the right.
     I cleared the  corner, moved forward three  or four meters and stood my
ground, waiting. I knew  Glen would be  clearing the  other  way. I saw  his
weapon'sIR splash against the walls as he  turned toward  me, then they both
passed  on my  left. Sarah still had  her  pistol bolstered and was  keeping
close to Glen. The floor was tiled or concrete, it was hard to tell which.
     All I knew was that there was an echo of footsteps and squeaking rubber
as we moved.
     Glen  stopped and pointed  at a  door. He  took  his  weapon out of the
shoulder, put his back against the wall to the left and reached for the door
handle. I moved to the opposite side, weapon still up in the shoulder, ready
to make entry. He nodded; I took off my safety and nodded back.
     He turned the handle and I moved inside, pushing the door with me.
     I was blinded. The NVGs were  totally whited out. It was as if  someone
had let off a flare in front of my face.
     Glen shouted, "The fucking lights are back on!"
     I fell on my knees and ripped off the NVGs, blinking hard as I tried to
get  back some normal  vision. I  made out movement in the right-hand corner
and rolled to the left,  trying to make  myself  a harder target. As my eyes
adjusted I saw a middle-aged guy, his head bald apart  from wiry  side hair.
He was curled  up against  the far  wall,  his hands  protecting  his  face,
flapping even more than I had just been as you  do  when, just as the lights
come on, a man with a weapon bursts  in  on you. Fuck it; they must have had
standby power.
     I became  aware  of  bits  of  electronic  machinery  PCs, screens  and
computer  stuff all over the place, whirring and crunching now the power had
returned.
     I lifted my weapon into  my shoulder and pointed it at him.  He got the
message. I called for Sarah.
     She came  in and confirmed, "That's him." She gob bed off in Arabic and
he immediately did  as  he was  told,  sitting down on the sofa against  the
other wall, away from the desk with all the machinery on it. He didn't move;
his eyes were like saucers, trying to work it all out and listen to Sarah at
the same time.
     From my bergen,  I pulled out  six magnesium  incendiary devices. All I
needed to do was to get them sparked up and we could be on our way.
     It was  then  that Sarah pulled a laptop and some  other gear from  her
bergen and started plugging it  in  and revving things  up, still talking to
the  Source, referring to the Arabic script displayed on two of the screens.
He replied at the speed of sound, trying his best to stay alive.
     I was confused. This wasn't in the plan. I tried to keep a calm voice.
     "Sarah, what are you doing? Come on, it's time to go."
     Glen stayed outside in the relit corridor, giving protection. I knew he
would feel exposed  soon and would want to move out. After all, we'd got who
we'd come for. I said, "Sarah, how long's this going to take?"
     She was still scrolling down the screen. I was getting pissed off. This
wasn't what we were supposed to be here for.
     "No idea--just do your job and keep everyone back."
     I needed to underline the problem we faced.
     "This is going  to  turn  into a gang-fuck soon, Sarah. Let's just grab
him and go."
     She wasn't even looking at me, just hitting one of the keyboards.
     The Source sat tight, looking as confused as I felt.
     Glen  was starting  to  get agitated. He stuck  his head back  into the
room.
     "How much longer?"
     She said, "What's with you people? Wait."
     Sarah  seemed gripped by  the information she had before her.  I walked
toward her, trying to be the good guy.
     "Sarah, we've got  to go. If not, we're in a world of shit."  I grabbed
her arm, but she pulled away and glared at me.  I  said, "I don't understand
the problem. We have the Source, so let's grab him and go."
     We were inches apart, so close I could  feel her breath on  my face  as
she spoke.
     "There is more to do, Nick," she said, slowly and quietly.
     "You don't know the full brief."
     I felt ridiculous. Very near the bottom of the food chain as usual, I'd
obviously been shown only one piece of a much bigger jigsaw puzzle.
     They'd justify it in terms of "need to know" or "op  sec," but the real
reason was that people like me and Glen simply weren't trusted.
     Just as I took a step back the silence was broken by shouting, then the
distinctive signature ofAKs on  auto, their heavy calibre  7.62 short rounds
flying around outside the building.
     "Shit.. . don't move!" Glen shouted into the room. We had gone noisy:
     not good. He left us and ran down the corridor. I closed the door.
     I could hear  the lighter sound of Car 15s returning fire, and  lots of
shouting, from our guys  as well as the Syrians.  It  didn't matter that the
Syrians could hear us shouting in English--there was now so much gunfire and
confusion  that  it  was  irrelevant--much  more important was  to  get  the
communications right.
     I tried to sound calm.
     "Sarah, time to go."
     She turned her back on me and carried on working. Our new friend on the
sofa was  getting more worried by the minute. I knew just how he felt. There
was another exchange of fire outside.
     "Fuck this, Sarah, we've got to go. Now!"
     She spun around, her face tight with anger.
     "Not yet." She almost  spat the words. She jabbed her finger toward the
direction of the contact as more rounds were fired.
     "That's what they're paid for. Let them  get on with it. Your job is to
stay with me, so do it."
     Glen was at the end of the  corridor, screaming to me at the top of his
voice.
     "Get them out! Get them out now!"
     I moved across the room  toward the  Source. He was curled into a ball,
like  a terrified child.  I grabbed his arm  and started to drag him off the
sofa. I hadn't even put on the plasticuffs.
     "Let's go, Sarah, we're .. .
     going ... now!"
     She turned, and as she did  I realized that she was drawing down on me,
her pistol  aimed at  my center mass. She stepped back so there was too much
distance for me to react to it.
     My new friend didn't  want anything to do with this. He just stood next
to me, his arm still half  elevated by my hand, gently and calmly praying in
a low Arabic moan as he waited to die.
     Sarah had had enough.
     "Sit him down." She said something in Arabic that must have been to the
effect  of "Shut  the fuck up!" because  he  jumped back  on  the sofa.  She
levelled her eyes on me again.
     "I'm  staying  here,  what  we  are  doing  here is  important.  Do you
understand?"
     It doesn't matter who it  is, if somebody's pointing a  gun at you, you
get  to  understand  very  quickly.  Whatever  her  agenda was,  it  must be
important.
     She turned calmly, bolstered  her weapon  and went back to work  on the
keys.
     I had one last try.
     "Can't we just take him, plus the computers, and fuck off?"
     She didn't even bother looking at me.
     "No. It has to be done this way."
     I couldn't  do both take  her and the  Source. I was  still working out
what to do when  I heard Arabic voices  inside the building. The best way to
do my job and protect her was to go forward, to get out of the room and stop
the threat before it came screaming in to get us.
     "I'm going outside," I said in an urgent whisper.
     "Don't  move  until somebody comes to get you. Do you understand me?" I
checked my mag was on tight as she looked  up from the  computer and sort of
acknowledged.
     I put the Car  15 into my shoulder, and holding the pistol grip to keep
the weapon up, opened the door with my left hand.
     The  lights were still on  in the corridor and the  sounds of  contacts
were louder to  my right, but my immediate concern was the noises to my left
in  the  corridor. I decided to move down  to  the next junction and hold it
there;
     that way there would be a weapon at each end with Sarah in the middle.
     I closed the door behind me and started to  run.  After seven  or eight
strides I was moving past an external door when it burst inward. The thud as
it hit me full-on was as hard and sudden as if I'd walked into the path of a
moving  car.  I was hurled against  the opposite  wall,  stunned and winded.
Worse, my weapon had been forced out of my hands. I had lost control of it.
     There was yelling on both sides; me from the pain, once I got my breath
back, and the Syrian from  the surprise. He jumped on top of me on the floor
and we grappled like a couple of schoolkids. I tried to get to the pistol on
my right thigh, but he had  me in a solid bear hug around my armpits. I  was
pinioned with my arms out like the Michelin Man.
     I tried to kick and buck out of position, then to head-butt him. He was
doing exactly the same. Both of us were screaming.
     The  bloke  stank.  He  had  a week's bristle on  him and  it was rough
against my  face  and neck as  he  squeezed and squeezed,  his  eyes closed,
snorting through  his nose as  he  cried  for  help. He  was  a big old boy,
packing over two hundred pounds of solid weight.
     I  needed  help,  too, and  screamed for  Sarah.  There was no way  she
couldn't  have heard me, but she didn't respond. I wasn't entirely sure what
this boy was trying  to do, whether he wanted to kill me, or if  he was just
fighting to protect himself.
     I yelled again.
     "Sarah! Sarah!"
     He responded by lifting his head slightly to scream out even louder. It
gave  me a momentary  window.  I  head-butted him,  trying  to make  contact
wherever I could. He did  the  same. Then something  happened that moved the
situation  on.  You  don't normally feel pain during a fight, but  I felt  a
stinging in my  left ear. His  teeth were  sinking in. I could actually hear
the skin break  and  then  the sound  of him straining  to bite harder.  The
fucker had a  gristly bit  of  my  ear lobe in his mouth and was starting to
pull his head back.
     I felt the capillary bleeding at once, warm and wet, splashing the side
of my cheek as his heavy breathing spat it out. He was in a frenzy, growling
at me through clenched  teeth, snot and saliva. I was still trying to get my
hands  down  toward my leg so I could reach my  pistol, which wasn't helping
keep my ear intact.
     I  managed to get my legs around his gut. I tried to squeeze, but could
only just about get my feet together. I felt the snorting from his nose move
away from my face slightly, which wasn't good news for my ear. Then his head
jerked  back,  taking part  of the  lobe  with him.  The  pain  felt  like a
blowtorch on the side of my head, but now that he'd moved back a bit I could
start to get my hands around his head. I could see the blood on his face and
snot  running  down from  his  nose  as  he fought  to breathe  through  his
still-gritted teeth. My fingers reached his eyes and he squeezed me up  even
more, shaking his head and screaming  as I  began to get a  good hold on his
face and dig deeper with my thumbs. He tried to bite my fingers.
     I moved  my right hand so I had a flat palm underneath  his  chin, then
switched my  left  to just below the crown of his head and grabbed a fistful
of his hair.
     You can't just  whip a head around to break  someone's neck. The design
is too  good for that.  What  you have to do is screw it off, as if you were
untwisting the cap on ajar. You're trying to take the head off at the atlas,
the small joint  at the base  of the skull. It's  relatively easy if  you're
doing  it  against somebody  who's  standing,  because  if you  get them off
balance, their body is  going  down and you can twist  and turn  at the same
time, so their  momentum  works against them. But I couldn't do that; all  I
could do was keep my legs around him and try to keep him in one place.
     I managed to get my boots interlocked, and  at last I could squeeze and
push down with my legs, at the same time twisting up with my arms as hard as
I could. I  kept  on turning as we both  screamed at each other.  The fucker
didn't like it; he knew what was going on, but fortunately for me he was too
old and too fat to do much about it.
     His neck went without too much of a crack.  He slumped  down, and there
wasn't much noise coming from him; there wasn't even a body jerk.
     He just  went  very  still. My hands  were covered  in blood,  snot and
saliva. I rolled over and kicked him off.
     My weapon was only about five  feet away. I  picked  it up  and checked
that the magazine was on tight, and that I still had a round in the chamber.
     I started to  move  back  to Sarah, then stopped. I  ran  back  to  the
Syrian.
     I  could  hear  firing again,  and people screaming  and shouting, both
Brits and Arabs, maybe just thirty meters away. It's funny how these details
take a back seat when you're worrying about other things.
     I scrabbled around and eventually  found  the piece of my ear still  in
his mouth. I couldn't be assed trying to stop the bleeding on the side of my
head  because  I  knew it wouldn't; capillary bleeding goes on  forever.  It
would sort itself out. But I would want to get the severed bit sewn back on.
It  wouldn't be too good with a chunk missing because I'd have a VDM (visual
distinguishing mark);  but worse than  that, I knew a couple of people  with
bits of  their ear missing, and it looked fucking ugly. The only alternative
was to have a 1980s Kevin Keegan haircut to cover it up.
     I got back to the room and banged on the door.
     "Sarah, it's me. I'm coming in, I'm coming in."
     Glen  was still at the end of the corridor.  When he heard  my voice he
shouted, "Come on, for rack's sake! Drag her fucking ass out... now!"
     He was right.
     Enough was enough, we were all going to die here soon.
     I pushed the door open and Sarah was still standing over one of the PCs
with her laptop plugged into some other shit. I looked over at the Source.
     He was sitting in  the same position  I'd  left  him in, as if he  were
watching  the TV A  small amount  of blood was trickling from  a hole in his
shirt, but it was the one in  the front of his head that gave the game away.
Blood was oozing out like lava flow. The back of his head lolled against the
sofa; it had ballooned  out  slightly,  but  the skin  was  keeping all  the
fragmented  bone  in  place.  It  looked like a car windshield  that's  been
punched;  the glass goes  out  in the shape of a fist,  but it's still  held
together.  Blood  and gooey  gray  tissue were dribbling onto the sofa.  You
didn't have to  be  George Clooney to know this boy wouldn't be surfing  the
net anymore.
     Not even looking  at me as she manipulated  the keyboard, she said, "He
tried to attack me. But he is happy God would have sent him seqina."
     She knew I  wouldn't  have  a  clue what she  was on about,  and added,
"Tranquility."
     I looked at  him  again. He hadn't moved from  where he'd been when I'd
left the room  and there was no look of tranquility  on  his face. He hadn't
attacked her. So what; as  if I gave  a fuck.  It was probably  part of  the
alternative brief she'd  been  given.  AK fire  called  me back to the  real
world.
     "Come on, let's go. Now, Sarah!"
     "No." She shook her head.
     "I'm going to be a few seconds more."
     The incendiary devices were still on the table. One of my jobs,  unless
she was going to tell me that had changed, too, was to destroy any equipment
on target.
     She hit the final key.
     "OK, we can go." She started to pack herself up.
     I went to  the sofa, pulled the  Source away and let him roll onto  the
floor.  Picking up one end of  the sofa and dragging it  across the room,  I
leaned  it  against  the bench of computers.  I got the  wastepaper  basket,
scattered the contents on the bench top and added a rug from the floor and a
couple of  chairs.  I wanted  as  much flammable  stuff as possible near the
incendiaries.
     I said, "Are you sure you're ready now?"
     It  was the first time  she'd  looked  at me since  I'd returned to the
room.  I saw her studying the red mess on the side of  my head. I pulled the
pin of the first device and positioned it on the table between two VDUs. The
handle flew off, and by the  time the  last  one was placed two were already
burning fiercely. I could feel the heat, even through my jump suit.
     I ditched  the bergen; everything I  needed now was in my belt kit. The
air was filling with the noxious black fumes of burning  plastic. I  grabbed
hold of Sarah,  who had her repacked  bergen slung  over  her shoulders, and
headed for the door. I opened  it a  couple of  inches and  shouted to Glen,
"Coming through! Coming through!"
     He yelled back, "Shut the fuck up and run! Run!"
     I  didn't  look left or right, just ran for  the door by the same route
we'd come in. Within less than a minute I was in the cold night air, my eyes
peeled  for  the gap  in the  fence. It was pointless worrying about getting
shot; I just ran in a stoop  to make as small  a target as possible, keeping
Sarah in front of me.
     I  caught a glimpse of Glen behind me, plus another bloke still farther
back. They followed  as we sprinted  toward the fence, rounds thudding  into
the  ground around us. The  Syrians were firing far too  many  rounds in one
burst and couldn't control their aim.
     Reg 1 pulled open one half of the upside-down V Sarah slid into the gap
like a baseball player going for base. I prepared  to do the same.  I caught
up with her as her slide stopped on the other side and kicked her out of the
way so I wasn't blocking the gap for the other two.
     "Move! Move!" I expected them to do the same to me. Nothing happened.
     Reg 1 had already seen the reason why: "Man down! Man down!"
     Looking back through the gloom, I could see a shape on the ground about
twenty meters  away. Whoever was  with him already  had his hand in his loop
and  was  trying to  drag  him  toward the fence.  Each of us  was wearing a
harness,  a large loop made  of nylon strapping between our  shoulder blades
with which a downed body could be dragged or hooked up to a heli winch for a
quick extraction.
     "Stay here don't move!"  I could see  from Sarah's  expression that for
once she was going to do as she was told.
     I ran out to the dragger, and between us we pulled Glen toward the hole
in the fence line. He was moaning and groaning like a drunk.
     "Shit, I'm down, I'm down."
     Good. If he was talking, he was breathing.
     I could see that the legs of his coveralls were shining with blood, but
we'd have to look at that later. The first priority was to get him, and  us,
out of the immediate area.
     I  slid through  the  fence,  turned  on my  knees, got hold of  Glen's
harness and dragged him through the gap. Sarah said and did nothing. Her bit
was done; she was way  out of  her depth now. Reg 1 and 2 were  waiting with
her;  the  other  two  patrol  members were giving  covering  fire  from the
olive-grove side of the fence as  we  moved toward them, letting  off double
taps at anything that moved.  They needed  to conserve ammo; we  didn't have
Hollywood mags.
     Reg 1 was shouting commands.
     "Move back to the FRV, move back."
     He  had  a  sat  comm  out,  its miniature  transmission dish  pointing
skyward, telling the world that we  were in the shit. I  didn't know who  he
was talking to, but it certainly made me feel better.
     Every other  man carried a poncho stretcher a big  sheet of green nylon
with loop  handles as part of  his kit. Reg  2  laid his on  the ground as I
removed  Glen's  belt  kit and  bergen and put it on  my  back.  So much for
traveling light. As we rolled him  onto the stretcher he was still conscious
but, if he hadn't already, he'd soon go into shock.
     It was  then  that I heard an ominous slurping noise  in time  with his
breathing. He  had a sucking wound to his chest: air was being sucked inside
his  chest cavity instead  of going through his mouth. It was going  to need
sorting  out  quickly because  otherwise  the fucker was  history. But there
wasn't enough time to  do it here  that way we'd all die. We'd  have to wait
until we  reached the FRY Reg 2 heard the noise, too. Grasping Glen's  hand,
he placed it on his chest.
     "Plug it  up, mate."  He wasn't that out of it, he understood  what  he
needed to do. With a chest wound we couldn't give him morphine; he was going
to have to take the pain.
     Two of us got  hold  of him, one on either side of the  stretcher,  and
started to hobble along with him as quickly  as we could, Sarah following at
my heels. I didn't look at what was going on behind us, but I heard the rate
of covering fire from Reg 1 and 2 step up as we moved off.
     We  hit the tree line, Glen's moans distorted by the jolting as we ran.
We  got farther  into the grove, and only  then moved  to  the right,  under
cover.
     He  was  still conscious and breathing  noisily as  we laid him  on his
back.
     The  light from the target area was just enough to see my hands  moving
as they worked on him. There was no need to worry about clearing his airway,
but his hand had fallen from his chest. I put my hand over the wound to form
a seal.  Hopefully, with  his  chest now  airtight,  normal breathing  would
return. I  could  see the anguish in  his  eyes. His throat spluttered as he
coughed and fought the pain.
     "What's it like? What's it like? Oh, shit."
     He screwed up  his face even  more as Reg 2 moved him.  It  was a  good
sign: he could still feel it, his senses hadn't given way yet.
     Reg 2 finished checking him.
     "No exit wound."
     First you've got to plug the  leaks, then you  have to put in  fluid to
replace what's been  lost.  I watched as  Reg 2 grabbed the  field dressings
from Glen's belt kit and ripped them open. You always use the casualty's own
dressings; you might need yours later. The packaging  was  Israeli, but they
looked the  same  as  ours,  like big fat sanitary  napkins with  a  bandage
attached.  Their job,  in  any language, is  to  block  up  wounds and  stop
bleeding by the application of direct pressure.
     A round from  an  AK had  also ripped through the  muscle  mass on  his
thigh,  like a butcher's knife slicing  open a  side of beef. He  was losing
blood fast. Reg 2 started to cavity-pack the wound.
     The downside of Glen still breathing was that we couldn't shut him up.
     Over and over he groaned, "What's it like? What's it like?"
     I  looked down  at him. He was covered in sweat, and the dust had caked
onto his face.
     "Shut the fuck up," I said.
     "It's nothing, we'll fix it." You should never  let a casualty  see you
looking concerned.
     Sarah  was  several  paces behind me,  watching  the route  we had just
taken, weapon out. I half whispered, half shouted, "Sarah! Come here!"
     She moved toward  me. I said, "Put the heel of your hand over this hole
when I take mine off, OK?"
     He was losing consciousness. Close  to his ear,  I said, "It's  OK, you
can speak to me now." There was no response.
     "Oi,  come  on, speak to me,  you fucker!" I  pulled on his  sideburns.
Nothing.
     I pulled up the left  sleeve  of his coveralls to expose  the  six-inch
band  of tubigrip on  his forearm. Underneath that was the catheter, already
inserted in a vein  before we moved on the target. You'd  have to be mad not
to;  a bit of anticoagulant in the  catheter to stop the blood from clotting
and it will last for a good twenty-four hours. You are a bit sore afterward,
but it will save your life. It's hard  to get a vein up to insert a catheter
once you've lost fluid, especially under fire and in darkness.
     Reg 2 had nearly finished packing the thigh wound.  It  would have been
no good just piling bandages on top, because the muscle underneath was still
going to bleed. You have  to really pack the cavity, keeping direct pressure
on the wound, and  that, in turn,  will stop the bleeding. That done, he now
needed fluid.
     Glen's breathing was very rapid and shallow, which wasn't a good sign.
     I felt the pulse on his neck; same problem there. His heart was working
overtime to circulate what fluid was left around his body.
     Shots were now being fired at us  from about a  hundred meters away but
all my attention was focused on Glen.
     Reg 2 shouted at Sarah.
     "Watch him  and tell  us if his breathing starts to slow down. Got it?"
She nodded and started to take notice.
     I  pulled  the  plasma  expander from  his  belt  kit, a  clear-plastic
half-liter container  shaped like  a liquid soap bottle. I ripped it out  of
its  Israeli plastic wrapper and threw that  on  the ground. I  bit  off the
little cap that kept the neck of the bottle sterile. Fuck hygiene infections
could be sorted out in  hospital.  Let's keep him alive so he can get to one
first.
     By now I also had his IV set out of its protective plastic coating, and
was  biting  off the cap  to the spearhead connector and jabbing it into the
self-sealing neck of the bottle. I undid  the screw clamp, took off the  end
cap and watched  as the fluid  ran through the line. I heard  it splash onto
Glen's face. He didn't react. Bad sign. Rolling the  screw clamp on  to stop
the flow, I  wasn't concerned  about air bubbles in the line; a small amount
doesn't matter  certainly not  in these  circumstances. Let's  just  get the
fluid in.
     There was more gunfire from the target area, too close for comfort, and
for the  first  time since we'd been in the trees our blokes fired back. The
Syrians had found us.
     Reg 1 was still in command. He was down at the tree line waiting for us
to sort Glen out.
     "How much longer up there?"
     Reg 2 called back.
     "Two minutes, mate, two minutes. I need your fluids."
     As he jumped up with his weapon to collect the  kit I unscrewed the end
cap of the catheter and screwed the IV set into it.
     Sarah was still plugging the hole. I  could hear  her breathing quickly
in my ear as she leaned over Glen.
     "Nick, listen to me. Let's leave them to it, let's go."
     She was right, of course. The two of us would stand a far better chance
on our own.
     I  ignored her and  carried  on working  on Glen,  gently squeezing the
bottle to get the fluid into him. She whispered, a  bit more urgently, "Come
on, we need to go now, Nick. Remember, this is what they get paid for.
     And you are paid to protect me."
     Glen had to be dangerously low  on fluids, but he  was  still conscious
just.
     "Sarah, pass me your fluid, quick."
     She used her free hand to pull the bergen straps off her back to get to
it.
     The  first bottle was  now empty.  I turned off  the IV with the  screw
clamp.
     Sarah had her fluid in her hand. I said, "Open it."
     I heard her ripping  the plastic  with her teeth as  I  pulled off  the
empty  bottle. She handed it  over. The sound of gunfire was still very much
in the background.
     Reg 2 came back, packs of fluid pushed down the front of his jump suit,
panting as he collapsed on  the ground next to  us. I jabbed the  new bottle
into the set and opened up the screw cap. Reg 2 was studying Glen.
     All  of a  sudden he  shouted,  "Fuck, fuck,  fuck!" and  leaned  over,
grabbing Sarah's hand and lifting it.
     There was a  sound  like a rush of air escaping from the valve of a car
tire and a fine geyser of  blood sprayed  in  all directions. The round must
have pierced his lung, and as he breathed  in, the oxygen was  escaping from
the lung  and going into the chest cavity. The pressure had built up so much
in  his chest  that his  lungs  hadn't been  able  to  expand  and his heart
couldn't  function properly. That  was why Sarah  had to  watch  and listen,
because  the pressure on the heart and  lungs  would make  him breathe  much
slower than he needed.
     Reg 2 went ballistic, still gripping her arm.
     "Fucking bitch! Fuck you.
     Do it right! What are you trying to do? Kill him?"
     She said  nothing  as  the air gush subsided. Then,  very  calmly,  she
reminded him who was boss.
     "Let go of my arm at once and get on with your job."
     Reg 2 placed  Sarah's  hand  back over  the wound. Glen was just  about
conscious but still losing blood internally. Reg 2 got right up to his face,
"Show you can hear me, mate ... show me ..." There was no reply.
     "We're going to move you, mate. Not long now before we're out of  here.
OK? OK?" All he got in reply was a low moan. At least there was a reply.
     Reg 2 had to turn  him to check the  leg dressing. Blood started to run
out of the  hole and down Sarah's fingers.  She looked at me, pissed off, as
another fluid set was being connected. She wanted out of here.
     The others were rolling into  the FRY out of  breath and confused about
what had happened.
     "Is  everyone  here?"  Reg 1 counted. He came over  to us and looked at
Glen.
     "Is he ready to go?"
     Reg 2, still looking at  the casualty, said, "I think we're just  about
to find out." Using one of the  large safety  pins that came with  the field
dressings, he pinned Glen's tongue to his bottom lip. Glen was out of it; he
couldn't feel a thing. The danger was that, in  a state of  unconsciousness,
his tongue would roll back and block his airway.
     I turned to Sarah as  they sorted their shit out for the next phase and
whispered in her ear, "Our best chance  now is with these boys. If you don't
want to come, that's fine, but you leave the bergen. I'll take it back."
     The  look on her face said she knew she had no choice. She wasn't going
to leave; she couldn't do it without me.
     Reg 2 placed one of the ripped plastic coverings over the wound to seal
it better and instructed Sarah, "Get your hand back on that." He and another
Reg picked up  the casualty. Reg 2 kept the bottle high for the fluid to run
freely by holding the hanging loop in his mouth.
     It  wasn't a tactical move to the wagons, it was  a case of getting out
of there as fast as we could, bearing in mind the weight of the casualty and
his comfort. I didn't know what was going on behind me, back  at  the target
area, and I didn't really care.
     We reached the vehicles about thirty minutes later. I grabbed Sarah and
took her  to one side. There was  no point getting  involved  in what  these
blokes  were  doing; we were just  passengers. That wasn't  good  enough for
Sarah.
     "Come on," she hissed, "why aren't we moving yet?"
     I pointed at the rear Previa. They had got  the back door open and were
pulling the seats down to create a flat space for  Glen. Looking beyond them
I noticed  that the town was still dark. I  was  right, the industrial units
must have had emergency power.
     The  driver of  our  vehicle retrieved  the key, opened  the  door  and
motioned us inside. Another of the team  got in the  front. He  leaned  back
toward us.
     "As soon  as they're ready we're  going  to  move to the ERV (Emergency
Rendezvous)."
     We were sitting in darkness,  the driver with  his NVGs  on. There  was
tension in the air; we needed to get going. If not, it wouldn't just be Glen
who'd be in the shit. I didn't talk to Sarah; I didn't even look at her.
     At  last, the other  vehicle  started  to  move  off  slowly  and  ours
maneuvered in  front of it and took  the lead. It  wasn't long before we hit
the metal led road. Behind us headlights came on, and Sarah took this as her
cue to get out her laptop. A few seconds later she was going shit or bust on
the  keyboard. The screen  glowed in the  darkness, lighting up her  sweaty,
dirty face. My eyes moved to  the maps,  diagrams and Arabic script in front
of  her,  none  of  which  meant  anything  to  me,  and  then  down  at her
well-manicured  fingers  that were  tapping  away furiously on the  keys and
smearing them with Glen's blood.
     We  drove like  men possessed for  twenty  minutes. Then,  after an NVG
drive into the desert with IR filters on the wagons' lights for another ten,
we stopped.
     Apart from  the  engine gently ticking over  and  the noise of  Sarah's
fingers hitting the  keys and her mumbling the Arab script she was  reading,
there was silence. A beeping noise came from the laptop. She muttered, "Fuck
it!" Her battery was running out.
     There  were shouts from the  other Previa. Somebody was working hard on
Glen, yelling at him, trying to get a response. Silence was obviously out of
the question  now. It's hard  to be quiet when you're fighting to keep a man
alive.
     The driver looked at his watch after about five minutes. He  opened the
door  and  shouted, "Lights!"  then  started  to flash  the wagon' sIR light
between dipped and full beam as he hit the Firefly  and stuck it out  of the
window. Even as this was  being said, I started to hear a throbbing noise in
the  distance, and  less  than a  minute  later  the sky was filled with the
steady,  ponderous beat  of an incoming Chinook.  The noise became deafening
and  stones clattered against  the  windshield and  body  work as the Previa
rocked  under the downwash from the rotor blades. The pilot wouldn't be able
to see the  vehicles or the ground now due  to  all the  sand  and  crap his
rotors were throwing up.
     A few seconds later a figure loomed out of the dust storm, bent double,
his flying  suit whipping around  him. He flashed a red light at us and  the
driver shouted, "That's it, let's go."
     Our  vehicle  edged  forward.  We  drove for  several  yards  into  the
maelstrom of wind and dust before things started to calm down. Red and white
Cyalume  sticks glowed around the open ramp and the interior  was bathed  in
red  light.  Three loadies wearing shoulder holsters, body armor and helmets
with  the visors down  were beckoning to us urgently with a Cyalume stick in
each hand. As if we needed any encouragement.
     Our  Previa  bumped up the  ramp  as  if  we  were driving onto a cross
Channel  ferry, and  one of the loadies  signaled  us to a stop.  The  other
vehicle lurched in behind us, and as soon as it had cleared the ramp I could
feel the aircraft start to lift off its hydraulic suspension. Moments later,
we were in a hover.
     We  swayed  to  the left and right as the pilot sorted his shit out and
the toadies  lashed down  the tires with chains. Hertz was  going  to be one
very pissed-off rental company.
     We were no more than sixty feet off the ground when  I felt the nose of
the Chinook dip as we started to move off and turn to the right.
     Chaos  erupted  inside  the  aircraft.  The  Regs  spilled  from  their
vehicles,  shouting  at  the  loadies, "White  light!  Give us white light!"
Somebody  hit  the switch,  and  all of a  sudden it  was like standing on a
floodlit football field.
     The inside of the other wagon  looked like  a scene out of ER. Glen was
still on his back, but  they'd ripped  open  the front  of  his coveralls to
expose the chest wound. Blood was everywhere, even over the windows.
     Reg 2 ran over to a lo adie who was  still at the heli ramp checking it
had closed  up  correctly. He shouted as loudly as he could against the side
of the guy's helmet and pointed to the rear wagon.
     "Trauma pack! Get the trauma pack!"
     The lo adie  took one look  at the bloodied  windows, disconnected  the
intercom lead from his helmet and sprinted toward the front of the heli.
     Everybody  had a job to do; mine was simply  to get out  of the way.  I
left Sarah sitting  in the  back  of our  Previa sorting out her laptop, and
moved to the front of the Chinook. I knew where the flasks and food would be
stowed and, if nothing else, I could be the tea lady.
     As I  moved to the front of the aircraft I met the  lo adie  on his way
back with the trauma pack, a black nylon bag the size of a small suitcase. I
stepped to one side and watched him open the bag as he ran, bouncing off the
front wagon and airframe as he momentarily lost his balance.
     At that  moment Sarah  jumped out between us with the laptop  and power
lead in her hands. She was shouting at him, "Power! I need power!"
     He went to push her aside, yelling, "Get out of the fucking way!"
     "No!" She shook her head angrily and put her hand on him.
     "Power!"
     He shouted something back at her; I didn't know what because he was now
facing away from me, pointing toward the front of the aircraft.
     She moved quickly past me  toward the cockpit, so bound up with her own
obsession  that  she  didn't even see me. I  continued  on, heading for  the
bulkhead behind the cockpit. I picked up  one of the aluminium flasks, which
was held in place by elastic cargo netting, and started to untwist  the cup.
Coffee, not tea, and it had never smelled so good.
     As I turned and started to walk  down toward  the rear Previa, flask in
hand, I could hear them,  even above the  noise of  the heli,  shouting with
frustration.  Two drips were being held up and a circle of sweaty, dusty and
bloodstained faces was working on him. As I got closer I could see they were
rigging him up in shock  trousers. They're like thick ski pants that come up
past  your hips  and  are  pumped up to apply pressure  to the  lower limbs,
stemming blood loss  by restricting the supply  and so keeping more blood to
rev  up the  major organs. It  was a delicate procedure,  because  too  much
pressure could kill him.
     Reg 2 looked as if he was on the  case big time. He was  holding Glen's
jaw open, breathing into his mouth with the safety pin still in place. I was
close enough  to see  his chest rise.  Someone had his  hand over  the chest
wound, ready to depressurize. Once Reg 2  had finished inflating his lungs a
few times he shouted, "Go!" Another was astride  him, both arms outstretched
and open hands on top of each other on his chest.
     "One, two, three..."
     There  was  obviously  no pulse  and  Glen  wasn't  breathing.  He  was
technically dead. They were filling him up with oxygen by breathing into his
mouth, then pumping his heart for  him, while  simultaneously trying to make
sure that no more of his fluid escaped from any of the  holes he had in him.
Glen's chest was just a mess of blood-matted hair.
     The team was  going  to  be  too busy to drink  coffee, so with nothing
useful to  do  I  pulled up  my  left  sleeve and peeled back  the tubigrip.
Ripping off the  surgical  tape holding  the  catheter in place, I carefully
pulled it out, pressing down on  the  puncture wound with a finger  until it
clotted.
     I looked around for Sarah.  She was in a world other own,  sitting near
where the coffee  flasks were  stowed. She'd found the  power  point and  an
adaptor that fed a two-pin plug, and her fingers were tapping frantically at
the keyboard once more.
     I looked back at Glen. There was still  lots of  shouting and hollering
going on in there; I just hoped that whatever was on that computer was worth
it.
     I  looked out of  one of the small round windows and saw lights on  the
coastline. We had a bowser inside the Chinook, feeding extra fuel. It looked
like this was a  direct  flight  and  that we were on  for tea  and toast in
Cyprus later that morning. I took a sip of coffee.
     As we crossed the coast and  headed out to  sea,  I  stared  out of the
window, my mind starting  to focus on the  deep sound of the two  big rotors
throbbing above us.  I was cut out of the daze by a  despairing shout: "Fuck
it! Fuck it!"
     I looked up in  time to see the bloke who'd  been  astride Glen's chest
climbing down slowly onto the deck, his  body language telling me everything
I needed to know. He swung his boot and kicked the vehicle hard, denting the
door.
     I turned my head and  stared back out of the window. We were flying low
and fast across  the  water.  There  wasn't a light  to be seen.  My ear was
hurting.  I reached into my pocket and  checked around for the  lobe.  I sat
there  toying  with  it, thinking  how strange it was, just a small  lump of
gristle.
     Hopefully they'd stitch it on all right--but what did it matter how bad
I looked? I was alive.
     I stood up and went over to Sarah. It was my job to look after her, and
that included  keeping  her informed of what was going  on.  She  was  still
immersed in her laptop.
     I said, "Sarah, he's dead."
     She carried on tapping keys. She didn't even look up to see me offering
her a flask top of coffee.
     I kicked her feet.
     "Sarah ... Glen is dead." She finally turned her  eyes  and said,  "Oh,
OK," then looked straight back down and carried on with her work.
     I looked at her hands. Glen's blood  had now dried hard on them and she
didn't give a  shit. If it hadn't been for her fucking about and not telling
us that the job  wasn't as straightforward as we were first told, maybe he'd
still  be here, a big fucking grin on his face. Maybe Reg 2 was right, maybe
she  had been trying to kill Glen  at the FRY  She knew  that  I would  have
binned the patrol and gone with her if he wasn't still in with a chance.
     The  team  were  sitting against the wagon, opening flasks and lighting
up, leaving Glen exactly as he was.  We'd all been doing what we got paid to
do. Shit happens. This wasn't going to change  their lives,  and I certainly
wasn't going to let it change mine.
     As  Sarah carried on  hitting her  computer  keys  I drank  coffee  and
watched  the line of the  Cyprus coast  appear, trying to work out  what the
fuck I was doing here.
     Three gallons a day, that's your lot," the bosun barked.
     "But two gallons have  to go to  the cook,  so there's one gallon--I'll
tell ye again, just one gallon--left over for drinking, washing and anything
else ye  need  it for.  Anyone  caught taking more will be flogged.  So will
gamblers, cheats and malingerers. We don't like malingerers in Her Majesty's
navy!"
     We were lined up on either side of the deck, listening to the bosun gob
bing  off about  our  water ration. I  was trying not to catch Josh's eye; I
knew I'd burst into a fit of laughter that Kelly wouldn't find amusing.
     There were  about  twenty of us "new crew," mostly kids, all dressed in
the  standard-issue  sixteenth-century sailors' kit:  a hessian  jerkin  and
shirt,  with  trousers that stopped about  a foot short of the trainers we'd
been  instructed  to  bring  with  us. We  were aboard  the  Golden  Hind, a
fullsized  reconstruction of  the  ship  in  which  Sir  Francis  Drake  had
circumnavigated the  globe  between 1577 and 1580.  This version,  too,  had
sailed around  the world,  and film  companies had used it as a  location so
often it  had  had  more make  overs than  Joan Collins.  And now it was  in
permanent dock serving, as Kelly called  it in  her very American way, as an
"edutainment" attraction.  She was standing to my right, very excited  about
her birthday treat,  even if it was a few days late. She was now nine, going
on twenty-four.
     "See, I told you this would be good!" I beamed.
     She didn't reply, but  kept her eyes fixed on the bosun. He was dressed
the same as us, but was allowed  to  wear a hat--on account of all the extra
responsibility, I supposed.
     "Ye slimey lot  have  been  hand-picked for a  voyage  with Sir Francis
Drake, aboard this, the finest ship in the fleet, the Golden Hind}" His eyes
fixed on  those of  each  child as he passed  them  on  the  other  line. He
reminded me of my very first drill sergeant when I was a boy soldier.
     I looked over at Josh  and his gang, who were on the  receiving end  of
his tirade. Joshua G. D'Souza was thirty-eightish,  five  feet  six  inches,
and, thanks to being into weights, about two hundred pounds of muscle.
     Even his head  looked like a bicep; he was 99 percent bald, and a razor
blade and moisturizer  had  taken care of  the other  1 percent. His  round,
gold-rimmed glasses made him look somehow more menacing than intellectual.
     Josh  was half  black, half  Puerto Rican, though  he'd  been  born  in
Dakota. I couldn't really work that  one out, but nor could I be bothered to
ask. Joining  up as a teenager, he'd  done a few  years in the 82nd Airborne
and then Special Forces. In his late twenties he'd joined  the U.S. Treasury
Department  as  a member of  their Secret Service, in  time  working on  the
vice-presidential protection team in Washington. He lived near Kelly's dad's
place, and he and Kev had met, not through work, but because their kids  had
gone to the same school.
     Josh had his  three standing next to him, working hard at understanding
the bosun's accent. They were  on their last leg of  a whistle stop tour  of
Europe during  their Easter vacation. Kelly and I had collected them off the
Paris  Eurostar just  the day before; they  were going  to spend a  few days
seeing the sights with  us before heading back to D.C." and Kelly was really
hyper. I was pleased about that; it was the first time she'd seen them since
"what  happened"--as we  called it--over a year ago. All things  considered,
she was doing pretty well at the moment and getting on with her life.
     The bosun had turned back and was moving up our line.
     "Ye  will be learning gun  drills, ye will be learning how  to set sail
and repel boarders.
     But best  of all, ye'll  be hunting for treasure  and  singing sailors'
shanties!"
     The crew was encouraged to respond with their best sailor-type cries.
     All of a sudden, competition for the loudest noise came  from the siren
of a tourist  boat  passing on the river, and  the  bark of its horn, as the
first sailing of the day "did" London Bridge.
     I glanced  down  at  Kelly. She was quivering  with excitement.  I  was
enjoying myself, too, but I felt just  a  bit weird standing  there in fancy
dress in  full public view, aboard a ship docked on the south side of London
Bridge. At this time of the morning, there were still office workers walking
along the narrow cobblestoned  road that paralleled the Thames,  dodging the
delivery  vans and  taxis on their way to work. The trains that had got them
this  far were slowly trundling along the elevated  tracks about 200  meters
away, making their way toward the river.
     The pub next to  the ship,  the  Olde Thameside  Inn, was  one of those
places that supposedly dates from Shakespeare's day but which, in  fact, was
built maybe ten years earlier on one of the converted  wharves that line the
river. The office  crowd, plastic  cups  and cigarettes in hand, were making
the  most of the  morning sun  on the terrace overlooking the  water, having
picked up their late breakfast from the coffee shop.
     I was hauled back to  the  sixteenth century. The bosun had stopped and
was glaring theatrically at Kelly.
     "Are you a malingerer?"
     "No  sir, no  sir!" She  pushed herself  into my  side  a  bit more for
protection.
     She was still a bit anxious about strangers, especially adult men.
     The bosun grinned.
     "Well, seeing as you're a special crew, and I know you're going to work
hard, I'm going to let you have your rations. You'll be getting some special
sailors' nuggets and Coke." He spun around, his hands in the air.
     "What do you say?"
     The kids went bonkers: "Aye aye, sir!"
     "That's not good enough!" he bellowed.
     "What do you say?"
        "AYE AYE, SIR!"
     The  kids were  shepherded by the  bosun and the  rest of the permanent
crew toward the tables of food.
     "Small sailors first," he ordered.
     "The tall sailors who brought you here can wait their turn."
     Kelly ran over to Josh's three--two  girls, Dakota and  Kimberly,  aged
eleven and nine, and a boy, Tyce, who was eight. Their skin was lighter than
Josh's--their mother was white--but they  looked just like their dad, except
they still had all their hair. Which was a good thing, I thought.
     Josh and I turned and looked out over the deck toward the Thames.
     Josh waved back at  some tourists who were waving from the boat, either
at us or at the coffee morning still going strong to our left.
     "How is she coping?" he asked.
     "Getting  better,  mate, but  the shrink  says  it'll  take time.  It's
affected her  schooling big time, she's way behind.  The last lot  of grades
were shit.
     She's an intelligent girl, but she's like a big bucket with  holes, all
the information's going in, but it just drips out again."
     "You think about what she's been through,  man, for sure it's  going to
take some time."
     We  turned to  see all four  of the kids throwing  chicken nuggets down
their necks.  It was a strange choice for breakfast, but then again, I liked
choc ice  cream and fries first thing in the morning when I was a  kid.  The
elder daughter  wasn't  getting  on with Tyce today and Josh had to do a dad
thing.
     "Hey, Kimberly, chill! Let Tyce have his Coke--now!"
     Kimberly didn't  look too happy but obeyed. Josh turned back toward the
river, took off his gold-rimmed glasses and gave them a wipe.
     "She looks happy enough, that's a good sign."
     "It's  the  best  she's been for  ages. She's  slightly nervous  around
adults,  but with her friends she's OK. It means so much for her to see your
lot.
     Besides, it gives her  a rest  from me." I couldn't bring myself to say
that I found it wonderful to see him as well. I hoped he knew anyway.
     We both looked out over  the river with not a  lot to say. He broke the
silence.
     "How's the job? Are you on permanent cadre yet?"
     I shook my head.
     "I don't think it  will ever happen. They know  I was involved in a lot
more of the Washington stuff than  I let on." It  pissed  me off,  because I
needed a regular  income  these days.  I had the money I'd rescued from last
year's gang-fuck, but that wouldn't last forever. I grinned.
     "Maybe  I could  turn  to crime. Couldn't be worse  than the shit  I do
now."
     He frowned, not sure if I was being serious or not, and tilted his head
in  the  direction of the huddle of small sailors, as if to remind  me of my
responsibilities. He put his specs back on and focused on a black  guy in an
old, shiny blue tracksuit  who had  set up shop  at the  corner  of the pub,
selling the Big Issue and chatting up the women walking past.
     "It's OK for you," I said.
     "We  don't have a training wing where I can go and put  my feet up  and
still  get paid." I thought Josh was going to give me a lecture, so I put my
hands up.
     "OK, I surrender. I will sort my shit out-one day."
     In a way,  I had sorted myself--a bit. With the money I'd diverted from
the  Washington job,  300,000  once the  dollars were  converted, I'd bought
myself a house up on the Norfolk coast in the middle of nowhere. The village
had a co-op on the corner and that was about  it; a traffic jam was when the
three fishing boats came into the harbor  and their vans arrived at the same
time to take  the catch  away.  Otherwise, the  busiest it got  was when the
postman  rang his bell as  he was  going around  the corner. I  didn't  know
anyone;  they didn't  know  me.  If  anything,  they  all had me down as  an
international drug dealer or  some weirdo. I kept myself to myself, and that
suited everybody just fine.
     I'd  bought  a  motorbike, too.  At last I  had the Ducati  I'd  always
promised myself,  and  I  even  had  a garage to  put it  in. But  what  was
left--about 150,000--wasn't enough to retire on, so I still had to work--and
I knew only one trade. Maybe that was why Josh and I got on; he was much the
same as me, running  his life like a conjuror, trying to keep all the plates
spinning on top of their poles. His plates weren't  spinning  so well at the
moment. Now that Geri  had gone,  one income  wasn't enough, and he'd had to
put the house up for sale.
     Josh had  had a tucker of a year. First his wife had got  into yoga and
all that  mind-body-spirit stuff, then she'd ended up going to Canada to hug
trees--or, more precisely, to  hug the yoga teacher. Josh and  the kids were
shattered. Something had  to give. He could no longer  travel away from home
with  the vice-presidential crew, so he became one of the training team  out
in Laurel, Maryland. It  was a very grand-sounding outfit-Special Operations
Training  Section--but  a shit job for a man  who was used to  being in  the
thick of things. Then, two months after  his wife left him, his friends Kev,
Marsha and their other child, Aida, were hosed down, and he  found he was an
executor  of  the will--along with some dickhead Brit  he'd  never heard  of
called Nick Stone.
     Between  us we looked after Kelly's  trust fund, and  we'd been  having
some problems  selling  the family  home.  When it came down to  it, who was
going  to buy a house where a whole family  had been butchered? The property
company was trying to pull a sleazy  deal so it could get the land back. The
insurance  companies had  been trying to  give Kelly a lump sum  instead  of
making  regular payments, because it was cheaper for  them. The  only people
getting any money  were the lawyers. There was something about it  all  that
reminded me of my divorce.
     I turned to him.
     "It is good to see you, mate."
     He looked back and smiled.
     "Same here, mate." His piss-taking accent sounded more Australian  than
English. Maybe they got Neighbors in his part of Virginia, too.
     There was really nothing more to  be  said.  I liked Josh and we  had a
fuck of a lot in common, but  it wasn't  as if  we were going to be  sharing
toothbrushes or anything like that. I'd decided after Euan turned me over to
bin  any idea of  friendship with anyone  else ever again, and  to  restrict
myself to acquaintances--but this did feel different.
     "Talking  of shit,"  I  said,  "how's the  quilt  shaping up?  The kids
sounded really ecstatic about it last night."
     His eyes looked up at the sky.
     "Fuck, man, it's been  a  nightmare. Two  months of hoo-ha and the kids
getting so high they might as well be on drugs."
     I had  to laugh. I'd been following  the buildup to this from Josh over
the phone, but no one was going to stop him honking about it a bit more now.
     "I've  been  to  meetings,  meetings  about  meetings,  sewing classes,
discussion groups, you name it; that's been my life for the last two fucking
months."
     There was going to be a summit between the Israelis and Palestinians in
Washington, D.C. Clinton was out to  look the big-time  statesman, brokering
the peace  deal, and somebody had come up with the bright idea of making the
world's biggest peace quilt to commemorate the occasion.
     Kids from all over  had been sewing like  crazy in  preparation for the
world's biggest photo opportunity on the White House lawn.
     Josh said, "I mean, do you have any idea how many stitches it takes  to
sew on just one fucking little shape?"
     "Don't worry about it, mate," I said.
     "They'll turn it into a TV  commercial for Coke and then you'll  all be
rich."
     The bosun wanted us.
     "Oi,  you two! Come  down and get your rations or ye'll swing  from the
yardarm!"
     "Aye aye, sir!"
     "I can't hear you. What did you say?"
     Josh got into 82nd Airborne mode, snapped to attention and screamed,
        "SIR! AYE AYE SIR!"
     The  old boy flogging the Big Issue started to cheer and clap, though I
wasn't too  sure whether the bosun liked the competition. Josh collected his
food and sat down amongst the kids, trying to pinch some of their breakfast.
     I got my ration of authentic Elizabethan nuggets, doughnuts  and pirate
cola. A train from London Bridge station rattled along  the elevated railway
line  behind  us,  the bells  of Southwark Cathedral  just fifty meters away
fired off  a salvo, telling us  it was 10:30  a.m." and here I was wondering
for the millionth time how I'd  landed myself  with  all this.  Josh told me
he'd always loved the idea of  being with  the kids, but  had never realized
the stress of  looking after  them all the  time until his wife left. Me,  I
loved it when I was with Kelly, but hated the idea of it. The responsibility
filled  me with dread.  When  it  came to  the  world  of emotions I  was  a
beginner.
     My birthday girl  was holding  court, telling  Josh's  kids  about  her
boarding school.
     "I  got a  twenty pence  fine because I didn't wear my  slippers to the
shower room last week." She loved the idea  of  being the same as the  other
girls; the fact that she had been fined meant she was one of the crowd.
     "Yes, and who has to pay the fine?" I said.
     She laughed.
     "My manager."
     Her  school had  been fantastic about everything, even though they knew
only the bare bones of what had happened. I agreed with Josh that it was the
best thing to  do, taking her right  away from the U.S. and  an  environment
that would bring back memories and screw her up even more. She never brought
up the subject of what had happened the day her parents and sister died, but
she had  no problem talking about them  if  things came up in  daily life to
remind us of them. Only once had I made a  direct  reference, and she'd just
said, "Nick, that was a long time ago."
     She began telling everyone about the week's plans.
     "Nick couldn't see me  on  my  birthday and had to leave me with Granny
and Grandad the day  before. But  this  week we're  going to  see the Bloody
Tower."
     "What?" Josh's mouth dropped open. He might be ex-Airborne at work, but
within earshot of his kids not even the mildest cuss would pass his lips.
     "She means the Tower of London," I said.
     "There's a place called the Bloody Tower; it's  where the Crown  Jewels
are kept,  I think. Something like  that." History  had never been my strong
point.
     Kelly's  face lit up at the thought  of seeing all  those  jewels. As a
child, I'd never known that sort of joy. My mother and stepfather never took
me anywhere; all they ever gave me was promises. When I was about eight, HMS
Belfast  docked  by  Tower Bridge and became a  museum. All the kids  on the
estate went, but not me all I got for  weeks was lOUs.  At last I was told I
was  going with my Auntie Pauline. I spent hours  trailing around  the local
shops behind her, asking when we were going.
     "In  a minute,  son, not  long now." The bitch was lying, just  like my
parents. The whole thing had  been a  ploy to get  me  off their hands while
they went out on the piss. After that I didn't even bother to ask. Fuck 'em.
I had another  eight years  before I could  leave home; I'd treat  it like a
waiting room.
     "...  then we're going to  have a sleepover at the  place where all the
mummies are. There's a museum where you can spend the ..."
     She was interrupted by the  bosun, who'd maybe  guessed  that the  tall
sailors needed a rest.
     "It's time for some seafaring tales while  ye have your feed. So listen
in, all ye crew, small and tall!"
     It  was while we were  sitting there listening to the sea tales, and  I
was digging a chicken nugget into my red sauce, that I felt my pager go off.
I  liked  the  fact that  people needed  me  to do things they  couldn't  do
themselves, but I  always  kept  it on vibrate because  I hated the noise it
made;  it always  spelled  trouble, like an alarm clock that wakes you on  a
morning you're dreading.
     I took  it out of its little carrying case,  which was  attached to the
draw cord of my trousers,  and checked the screen. It was  displaying only a
phone number. I was aware that Josh was  looking at me. He knew exactly what
it was. The other kids were  too busy listening to stories of doom and gloom
on the high seas  to notice, but Kelly never  missed a trick. She shot me  a
concerned glance, which I ignored.
     Pager networks cover a larger  area than mobile phones,  which was  why
the Intelligence Service used them. I preferred them anyway, because it gave
me time  to adjust mentally before someone bollocked me  or even worse, gave
me  the job from hell. I'd had the pager for only about six months. I wasn't
too sure  if it was  a  promotion to  be given one, or if  it  meant  I  was
considered a sad  fuck and  always available,  locked away like  a guard dog
until needed, then once done, given a bone and sent back into the kennel.
     Josh raised an eyebrow.
     "Dramas?"
     I shrugged.
     "Dunno, I'm gonna have to phone. Can you hold the fort?"
     He nodded.
     "See you in a few."
     The stories were still going on and the rest of the crew were producing
tubs of ice cream for  the spellbound kids. I slipped away and went down the
stairs  to one  of the lower decks, where we were going  to be sleeping that
night. Mattresses were  spread out on the floor, and we'd  had  to bring our
own fluffy sleeping bags, just like sixteenth-century sailors did, ho ho.
     I rummaged  in my holdall for some small change, and went upstairs  and
tried to sneak off the boat without Kelly seeing me.
     I should have known better. She must have been watching me like a hawk;
as I looked around  and saw her, I put my hand up and mouthed, "Be back in a
minute,"  pointing at the  pub. She looked puzzled,  and  more  than  a  bit
anxious. Josh  was  still  with  them,  nodding and grimacing  and generally
joining  in with the tales of seafaring derring-do. The cathedral bell  rang
out to tell me it was now eleven o'clock.
     I found a pay phone in the pub hallway.  The Olde Thameside Inn had its
first  customers of the day: traders from the  fruit  market drinking pints,
rubbing shoulders with the City dealers and  their bottled beer. As  I stood
with my finger  in my ear trying  to  listen  for the dialing code, I  found
myself  looking  at racks of tourist  flyers,  rows  and rows of the  things
telling me how great  the Tower of London was, all of them seeming to  point
the finger at the scurvy mutineer who might be jumping ship.
     I pushed a couple of coins into the slot and dialed the number, putting
my finger back into my other  ear to  cut  out  Oasis on the juke box. After
just one ring a very crisp, efficient female voice said, "Hello?"
     "It's Nick, returning the page."
     "Where are you?"
     She knew exactly where I was.  Every  call to  the Firm  is logged on a
digital  display. They put as much  effort into spying on each other as they
do against the enemy. It was pointless tapping in 141 before the number, and
saying, "I'm  in  Glasgow and  can't get back,"  because whatever I did  the
display would still tell her I was at a pay phone in Southwark.
     I said, "London."
     "Please wait."
     She pressed the cut-out button. Two minutes later she came back.
     "You need to be at Gatwick at three thirty this afternoon."
     My heart sank, but I already knew I was going to be there.
     "How long for?" Not that it mattered much,  I  was already a couple  of
jumps ahead,  thinking about how I was  going to make excuses  to a recently
turned nine-year-old.
     She said, "I don't have that information."
     Once she'd  finished  with the details  of the RV I put the phone down,
expecting  a refund of my unused coin, but I got  nothing. The  phone box in
the pub was one  of  those  private  ones  where you can charge whatever you
want. For a pound I got all of sixty seconds.
     I walked back, making  my way  around the  crowd outside that had moved
with the sun toward the ship. I was racking my brains thinking of what I was
going to say. Not to Josh that wouldn't be a problem but to Kelly.
     I saw Josh looking for me. It was only about twenty or thirty meters to
the gangplank,  and I  was  looking up at him  and slowly shaking  my  head,
getting  some of  the  message  across  in advance. He knew exactly what was
happening; he'd been there himself.
     I went up the gangplank, pretty certain I would be in  the shit, and no
doubt  starting to look  suitably guilty. This was the first  occasion Kelly
and I had had any decent time  together since she'd been in the U.K.; it was
like a newlywed leaving his honeymoon to go back to the office.
     As I got on deck she and a few other kids were helping to  clear up the
plates  under the bosun's instructions. For a horrible second or two I had a
flashback other in her house just before her family  was killed, laying  the
table for her mother in the kitchen. It made me feel even more guilty, but I
told myself we'd both get over it. She would be upset but I could make it up
to her when I came back. Besides, she'd seen Josh and the kids, and we'd had
a whale  of a  time. She'd understand. Plus,  she could see her grandparents
now.
     Josh knew what was on the cards. He bent down to his kids.
     "Yo!" He clapped his hands together as they waited for the instruction.
     "OK, kids,  let's get  all these  plates back  to  the  bosun,"  and he
dragged them away.
     I said, "Kelly?"
     "Mmm?" She didn't look up, just  carried on being too busy  picking  up
plates. She wasn't going to make it easy for me to give her the news.
     "That was my boss on the phone. He wants me to go away."
     She still didn't look me in the eye as she put the plates in a bin. She
said, "Why?"
     "They've  got a job for me. I told them that I was going to be with you
for  the week and I  didn't  want to go in, but  they said  I  must. There's
nothing I can do."
     I was  kind of hoping she'd  buy the line  that they were to blame, not
me.
     She  stopped what she  was  doing and spun  around.  Her  face  told me
everything I didn't need to know.
     "Nick, you promised."
     "I  know, I  can't help it. I've just been bleeped " "No," she  stopped
me.
     "It's beeped!" She  was always  giving me  a bollocking for getting  it
wrong.
     Her face  had gone bright  red. Tears were starting  to well up in  her
eyes.
     "Listen, Kelly, we can always  do  this  again  some  other  time. Just
think, Josh and his children have to leave for home in a few days  and won't
have a chance to see all these places, but we can come back."
     "But you said ... you promised me, Nick ... you said you wanted to have
a holiday with  me ..." The words tumbled out, punctuated by angry gasps for
air.
     "Y