Man Down

by Nathan Burrows

  ‘Okay sir, thanks. ‘That shipment number belongs to a batch of one in a thousand adrenaline that was shipped here, arriving on the first of May.’ Foster looked at Griffiths, who was scribbling in his notebook. The QM continued, ‘At some point, probably in Kandahar, the shipment was left out in the sun and went over its temperature limits so was scheduled for destruction. It went into the incinerator on the tenth of May.’ Ignoring the jibe at the ground team in Kandahar, although Foster knew that the QM was only covering his back, the Brigadier thanked him for the information.

  ‘There’s something else though, sir,’ The QM continued. ‘A discrepancy if you will.’

  ‘Go on,’ Foster said.

  ‘Well according to my records sir, we received thirty boxes in the shipment.’ The QM paused. ‘But we only destroyed twenty-four boxes.’ Foster looked at Griffiths who had stopped writing and was staring at the QM.

  ‘Thank you, QM,’ Foster said. ‘That’s all.’

  When the Captain had left, Foster stood with his hands on his hips and looked at the ceiling. Griffiths had returned to writing in his notebook when Foster broke the silence.

  ‘I cannot believe that we can track ampoules of adrenaline halfway around the world, and identify exactly where and when they were destroyed, but can’t identify when one of our soldiers is psychotic and in crisis.’ Griffiths didn’t reply, which Foster was quite grateful for. He knew that there was nothing really the policeman could say. ‘Malcolm, I have quite a few things that I need to do. Would you excuse me?’ Griffiths looked at the Brigadier, not without sympathy Foster thought.

  ‘Of course, shall we meet later?’

  ‘Yes,’ Foster glanced at his watch. ‘I’ll come and find you in an hour? You should have the isolation ward at your disposal. I’d asked for it to be made available to your team, and for locks to be fitted.’

  ‘Okay, no problem,’ Griffiths said as he got to his feet. The two men shook hands before the policeman walked towards the door. He turned when he reached it and looked at Foster.

  ‘Foster, I know this is an awful situation for you,’ Griffiths said, ‘but thank you.’

  The Brigadier said nothing in return. When Griffiths had left and closed the door, Foster sat down behind his desk and put his head in his hands.

  49

  The first part of the helicopter that hit the ground was the leading edge of the forward rotor blade. The thirty-foot long rotor was spinning round about five times every second when the tip hit the ground, shattering with a deafening snap as the steel and resin were torn apart in the impact. Large shards of the rotor blade flew in every direction, including back towards the main cabin of the helicopter. The next blade smashed into the ground a split second later, followed by the third blade. Fragments of the rotors flew through the air like a swarm, slamming into anything in their way, and in some cases, through. By the time the rear blade hit the ground and came apart in the same way, shrapnel from the first one had already hit the soft skin of the Chinook.

  Peppered by the fragments from the blades, the main body of the helicopter crunched into the ground. Davies’s last-minute actions had minimised the force behind the fuselage, but the total force of the impact was still immense.

  Inside the helicopter, Adams had got absolutely no idea what was going on. The noise of the impact was deafening, and he barely heard the whistling of the rotor fragments as they passed him by, let alone recognised the sound for what it was. The impact jarred every bone in his body, and his head slammed against the back of the seat, forcing his helmet forward over his eyes. He felt a wet, warm, spray of liquid on his face as the breath was forced from his body, and he gasped like a drowning man suddenly breaking the surface of the ocean.

  Despite the wounds in the sides of the helicopter from the blades, the main body of the fuselage had remained intact but buckled from the impact. As the remains of the rotors flew hundreds of yards into the air, the helicopter body warped and flattened before finally coming to rest on the rocky ground. As it settled, thick black plumes of smoke started pouring from the rear engine.

  Directly opposite him, Lizzie was restrained by the seatbelt as the main body of the helicopter hit the ground. Her body jackknifed around the seatbelt across her lap, and her legs flew up just as her upper body was forced forwards. With horror, Adams saw her left knee had smashed into her face, and he realised that the warm spray of liquid he had felt a split-second before was her blood.

  Immediately to his left, Adams saw a body smash into the canvas webbing of the chairs. He couldn’t see who it was, but a loud snap told him that they had at least one broken limb. He pushed his helmet back on his head so that he could see properly, and immediately saw Lizzie dangling from her seat which was now above his head. She was completely limp, blood was streaming from her face and dripping from the end of her shattered nose.

  He struggled with his seatbelt, trying to unclip it so that he could stand up. His back hurt like fuck, but he didn’t think that he’d done himself any serious damage. Adams finally managed to get his fingertips under the clasp of the belt and he threw the clip open. He gingerly got to his feet and looked up and down the interior of the helicopter. It was carnage. There were bodies and equipment strewn around. He couldn’t tell if he was the only one who’d survived or not, but no-one else seemed to be moving.

  He turned his attention to Lizzie above him. He needed to get her down so that at least he could check her airway, although he wasn’t even sure whether she was breathing or not. Adams braced his feet on the floor of the helicopter, which should have been the wall if it was upright, and tried to push her back into her seat to take the pressure off her seatbelt. She barely moved on the first try, so he readjusted his feet to try to get a better position and pushed as hard as he could with one hand while he fumbled with the belt. With a snap, the seatbelt flew open and took the skin off the back of his hand as it did so. Lizzie’s body fell out of the seat and he stumbled under her weight, managing to get a hand under one of her arms and stopping her from crashing to the floor. As he lowered her to the ground as gently as he could, Adams heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol slide being drawn back and released.

  ‘It’s over, Adams,’ a voice said. ‘Just put her down and step away. It’s over.’

  50

  Foster glanced up at the clocks on the wall of his tent. There were three of them — one showing the time in Zulu, one local time, and the last one the time in London. It was the last one that he was most interested in. It was mid-morning back in the United Kingdom, so at least he wouldn’t be waking anyone up with the phone call he was about to make.

  ‘MoD Operator?’ a tinny voice said on the other end of the phone. The phone network that Foster was using was secret, meaning that while the line was secure, the quality was pretty bad.

  ‘Lieutenant General Bertram, please,’ Foster replied.

  ‘Please hold.’

  As he waited, Foster tapped his pencil on his desk and wondered how many layers he would need to go through to get to the man himself. It was normally three, perhaps four. The next voice he heard was female.

  ‘This is General Bertram’s office. How can I help you?’

  ‘I need to speak to the General, please,’ Foster replied.

  ‘Who’s calling?’

  ‘Brigadier Foster. I’m the CO at–‘

  ‘Please hold,’ the woman cut him off, leaving Foster listening to a series of clicks and whirrs on the end of the line.

  ‘Foster?’ a gruff voice said a few seconds later. Foster mentally pictured the Lieutenant General, probably leaning out of his office window in Whitehall with a cigarette.

  ‘Sir, good morning.’

  ‘It was. I have a feeling you’re about to ruin it.’

  ‘I take it you’re up to speed on the situation out here, sir?’

  ‘I’ve been briefed, yes.’ Foster heard a wheeze on the end of the line. He’d been right about the cigarette. ‘Have they arrested him yet?’ />
  ‘Not yet, sir. There’s a situation out on the ground that we’re dealing with. Four dead, multiple casualties.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Foster. And he’s swept up in that?’

  ‘He is, sir. But as soon as he gets back, he’ll be arrested.’

  ‘Right. You got a pen?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ The General reeled off a series of numbers, which Foster dutifully wrote down. ‘That’s my desk line. It’s not secure, but call me when it’s done and I’ll get things going over here. Bloody Red Tops are going to have a field day with this one.’

  ‘We can’t do much about the rubbish that the tabloids print, sir,’ Foster said. ‘Do you need anything else from me at this point?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Foster,’ the General replied. ‘I’ve got a Min Sub ready to go. I’ll get it e-mailed to you to check before I send it out.’ A Min Sub was a Ministerial Submission — a formal note from the military to whichever Minister was responsible for the subject it talked about. In this case, the General’s note was intended for the Prime Minister himself.

  ‘Okay, sir. Thanks,’ Foster said. The next thing the General said would have been funny if the situation hadn’t been so serious. Just before he’d put the phone down, General Bertram had effectively killed Brigadier Foster’s career dead in the water.

  ‘There goes your OBE, Foster.’

  ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Adams stared at the gun in Major Clarke’s hand, forgetting any military etiquette about the use of rank. ‘Don’t point that at me, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Shut up, Adams,’ Clarke replied with a sneer. ‘It doesn’t matter, it’s all over.’

  ‘What’s all over? What are you talking about?’

  ‘This.’ Clarke waved the gun around before aiming it back at Adams. ‘All of this, all over. We’re dead, Adams. Any minute now the fucking Taliban are going to come charging over that hill and kill us all.’

  ‘Rob, come on,’ Adams said. ‘Put the gun down and stop arseing about. I need to see to Lizzie and the others.’ Adams started to kneel next to Lizzie when Clarke shouted at him.

  ‘Don’t fucking move, Adams!’ Clarke pointed the gun directly at Adams. ‘Leave her, she’s dead. Look at her — her face is smashed in.’ Adams looked down at Lizzie. Her face was covered in blood, and it was impossible for him to tell whether she was breathing or not because of the combat vest that she was wearing. Adams was desperate to at least check her airway, but as he looked back up at Clarke, he could tell from the look in his eyes that he wasn’t fucking about. Adams put his hands in front of his chest, palms facing towards Clarke.

  ‘Okay, sir,’ Adams said. ‘Okay, no problem. It’s all cool.’ Adams had a million thoughts rushing through his head. What was going on? ‘Are you hurt?’ he asked Clarke.

  ‘Oh, I’m just fucking peachy, Adams,’ Clarke laughed as he staggered on his feet, taking a step forward. Adams stepped forward with one arm out as he stumbled, but Clarke jabbed the gun at him. ‘Step back,’ he growled. ‘Leave me alone.’

  ‘What’s going on, sir,’ Adams said. ‘I don’t get this.’

  ‘You know, don’t you?’ Clarke replied.

  ‘Know what?’

  ‘Know about the adrenaline,’ Clarke said. ‘I saw you looking at the ampoules just before we got hit.’ Adams looked at the front of Clarke’s combat vest. He could see the handle of his left-handed scissors sticking out from behind one the straps. If Clarke had his vest on, then he must be wearing Clarke’s, Adams figured. Which meant that the adrenaline in the pocket belonged to Clarke. ‘I didn’t have time to get rid of it before we left, and then you picked up my fucking vest.’

  ‘You swapped saline for adrenaline?’ Adams said. ‘But why? Why would you do that?’ With a growing sense of dread, Adams realised that there was nothing wrong with Clarke other than the fact that he was absolutely fucking bonkers.

  ’Shh,’ Clarke said. ‘Do you hear that?’ Adams listened and could hear the sound of a vehicle in the distance. ‘Here they come, Adams. Terry fucking Taliban’s on his way to say hello with an AK47.’

  ‘Rob, for fuck’s sake,’ Adams said, trying to keep the fear out of his voice. He didn’t know which was worse. Clarke waving a pistol at him, or the approaching insurgents. ‘We’ve got weapons, we can defend ourselves until a rescue party gets here. They can’t be far away. There were Apaches back at the FOB, they’ll be here any minute.’

  ‘Well I can’t hear them, can you? And why would I want to be rescued, anyway? Who do you think those coppers back Bastion have come for?’

  ‘You don’t know that, Clarke,’ Adams said. ‘They could be here for anything.’

  ‘No, they’re here for me. They’ve found out somehow.’

  ‘Found out what?’

  ‘Found out that I killed those soldiers.’

  Adams’s heart was thumping in his chest as he considered his options. He could try to grab the gun from Clarke, but he could see from the whiteness of his knuckles that he had a good grip on it. By the time he managed to get near him, Clarke would have pulled the trigger. Adams tried to calculate the chance of his body armour stopping a bullet, but that was a huge risk. His only option was to try to talk Clarke down from the ledge he was on.

  ‘Why, Clarke?’ Adams said, almost in a whisper. ‘Why did you kill them?’ Clarke didn’t reply, but just readjusted his grip on the gun. As Adams watched, he noticed that Clarke’s eyes had welled up with tears. A fat drop started rolling its way down his cheek.

  ‘Because,’ Clarke said, his voice breaking. ‘Because they killed my father.’

  ‘Who did?’ Adams almost asked him what the fuck he was talking about, but he thought better of it. ‘How did they kill your father?’ he said instead.

  ‘The fucking Army,’ Clarke replied. ‘They drove him to it, he never had a chance. They destroyed everything he held dear. His career. His family. Everything.’

  ‘Drove him to what?’ Adams whispered. He had to keep him talking. Help had to be on the way. Where were the Apaches? If he could get Clarke to put the gun down, then at least they’d have a chance of surviving until reinforcements got here.

  ‘They drove him,’ Clarke replied through gritted teeth. ‘They drove him to hook himself to the exhaust pipe. It wasn’t my dad that did that, it was them. The bullies. The Lieutenant Colonel who stole my Mum from him.’ Tears were streaming freely down his face as he spat the words out. ‘I found him. I fucking found him. And I promised him that I’d make it right.’

  ‘My God, Clarke,’ Adams said. ‘I had no idea. I’m so sorry.’

  ‘You’re sorry? That’s what they all said at the time. Even the coroner was fucking sorry when he signed the death certificate that said suicide. But it wasn’t suicide, was it? It was murder.’ Clarke straightened his arm, pointing the pistol right at Adams’s face. ‘And I promised him that I’d make it right.’

  Adams and Clarke stared at each other in the back of the helicopter. Adams knew he only had a few seconds at most to do something. The only problem was he didn’t have a clue what to do. What he did know was that he didn’t want to die like this. They both listened to the noise of a vehicle getting louder every second. There was a screech of brakes, followed by a door slamming a second later. The faint sound of footsteps on the rocky ground filtered through to them.

  ‘So this is it, Adams,’ Clarke said. ‘This is our corner of a foreign field.’ His finger tightened on the trigger, his knuckle white as a sheet. ‘Forever England, right?’

  51

  The firing pin hammered into the rear of the round in the chamber, igniting the primer which in turn ignited the main charge of the round. The propellant in the main body of the round pushed the bullet down the chamber as the grooves in the barrel dug into the bullet to rotate it. If the bullet had further to travel, it would have started to turn in the air, but as it was only travelling a short distance through the back of the helicopter, by the time it hit its target it was still gathering speed
and hadn’t started rolling. The pointed end of the bullet found its target, punching its way through soft flesh.

  It wasn’t the first time that a British soldier had shot one of his colleagues, but it was the first time that this had happened in Afghanistan. This time around at least.

  The entry point was just above the left nipple. After the bullet tore through the body armour, missing the Kevlar plate across the breastbone that would have stopped it, it hit a rib. This deflected the round further into the thoracic cavity where it tore through the descending aorta. If it had nicked the blood vessel, then survival was a possibility. A slim chance, but still a possibility. But it wasn’t a nick. The bullet caught the main blood vessel that brought blood back to the heart full-on, shredding the walls of the aorta. Every pump of the heart that followed just pushed blood into the thoracic cavity instead of the heart. Starved of blood, the heart sped up to try to compensate for the lack of fluid coming back to it.

  He gasped once or twice, before sinking to his knees. It didn’t hurt. He’d always thought that getting shot would hurt, but he couldn’t feel anything at all. He glanced down to look at his chest and the rapidly spreading red stain on the front of his combats. A red bubble grew and popped from the entry wound, and he knew that whatever else the round had done inside his chest, his lungs were badly damaged.

  Why doesn’t it hurt? As the edges of his vision started to blacken, he felt his body falling backward. Into nothing.

  Even if the gunshot wound had occurred with the casualty right next to a fully equipped and staffed operating theatre, the chances of survival were exactly nil. But he didn’t know that. He didn’t know anything at all.

  52

  Staff Sergeant Partridge lowered the SA80 rifle, taking his eye away from the SUSAT sight. The split-second decision he’d just made would either make his career or see him spend the rest of it in a military prison in Colchester. He’d just shot an officer.