Man Down

by Nathan Burrows

  Partridge got to his feet, brushing sand from his knee as he did so. He looked back towards the WMIK that he and the other members of his patrol had arrived in after tearing their way across the desert towards the billowing plumes of smoke of the crash site. As they’d arrived and stopped the Land Rover about fifty yards from the wreckage of the helicopter, Partridge had knelt down and swept the area through his sight to make sure that it was clear for them to approach. Through the reticle of the rifle sight, he’d seen Major Clarke in an approximation of a shooter’s stance — his pistol pointing straight out in front of him at another person with his or her back to Partridge. The Staff Sergeant had a clear line of sight through the ruined back of the helicopter, and as he’d watched, Clarke had said something to the other person. From the look of the Major’s body language and his grip on the pistol, Partridge knew that he was about to shoot.

  Pulling the SA80’s trigger was instinctive. Partridge hadn’t considered his actions, the consequences of them, or what was going on in the back of the Chinook. He’d just pulled the trigger, aiming for the Kevlar plate at the centre of Clarke’s body armour. It was an instinctive action — he’d not wanted to kill Clarke but just put him out of action. A high-velocity round from an SA80 would have done that. Partridge knew that it wouldn’t penetrate if he got the shot central on the Kevlar plate. But it didn’t look as if he had.

  As Partridge started running towards the burning wreckage of the Chinook, one of the other members of his patrol called out to him.

  ‘Staff, what the fuck?’ Partridge ignored him and continued towards the helicopter. ‘You just slotted one of ours.’

  Partridge couldn’t tell where his round had hit Clarke until he got closer. As he approached the CH47, he could see a bloom of red on the Major’s chest and knew that he wasn’t as good a shot as perhaps he thought he was. Partridge ran towards the back of the helicopter and jumped up into the fuselage. He glanced down at the unconscious body of the Australian loadie that was lying by the ramp and walked towards the figure standing with his back to him. As he approached, the figure turned around and he recognised Adams.

  ‘Sir, we need to get a shift on,’ Partridge said. ‘There’s smoke pouring out of this thing. We need to get out.’ Adams regarded him blankly, the shock obvious on his face. ‘Sir,’ Partridge continued. ‘Fucking sort yourself out. We need to get going.’

  Adams looked down at Lizzie, and then across at Clarke. Partridge watched as Clarke gasped several times, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He didn’t look as if he had long left. Partridge had seen that type of breathing before, just before his Nan died in a nursing home.

  ‘Help me,’ Partridge heard Adams say as he knelt next to Lizzie, pressing his fingers against her neck. Adams paused for a few seconds. ‘She’s still alive, we need to get her out.’

  The two men each grabbed an arm and unceremoniously dragged Lizzie towards the back of the helicopter. As they did so, Partridge looked around the interior of the fuselage. He heard a groan from one of the crumpled bodies on the floor as they dragged Lizzie’s lifeless body across the floor. As they got to the back of the helicopter, Partridge saw two of his patrol standing just outside.

  ‘Oi, you two. Get in there and get the bodies out. There’s at least one alive, so find him first. Is the perimeter secure?’ Partridge clocked the nod from one of the soldiers. ‘Come on, Adams. We’ll take her to the WMIK. The others can clear the helicopter.’

  Partridge and Adams dragged Lizzie across the rocky earth towards the Land Rover, her feet leaving a pair of tram lines in the ground. As they approached the vehicle, Partridge saw a black speck on the horizon.

  ‘Cavalry’s coming, mate,’ he said. Adams looked up and squinted.

  ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he replied.

  They reached the Land Rover and placed Lizzie gently on the ground next to it. Partridge watched as Adams took her helmet off and pushed her blood-stained hair away from her face.

  ‘I need to roll her over, can you give me a hand?’ Adams asked. Partridge knelt next to him and together they rolled Lizzie onto her side into the recovery position. ‘I need my med kit. It’s in there.’ Adams nodded towards the wreckage of the Chinook. Black smoke billowed from the crumpled heap of metal. Time was ticking.

  ‘Adams, you stay here. I need to go and help the others,’ Partridge finally said. He was torn between the need to get anyone else who was still alive out of the burning wreck, and leaving Adams where he was. The bloke had just been in a helicopter crash, after all.

  ‘No, I’ll come back with you. I want my kit, not someone else’s,’ Adams said, getting to his feet.

  As the two men jogged slowly back towards the wreckage, Partridge put a hand on Adams's arm before slowing to a walk.

  ‘Sir, what the fuck was all that about?’ Partridge asked. ‘Why was the Major about to slot you?’ Adams looked at the soldier, and his brow furrowed.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said. Partridge knew from the look on Adams's face that he was lying, but decided to give the officer a second or two before calling him on it. ‘Maybe he’d had a smack to the head when we ploughed in or something,’ Adams said, his eyes avoiding Partridge’s.

  Partridge stopped walking, tightening his grip on Adams's arm to stop him from walking off.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Partridge said. ‘You’re going to have to do a fuck’s sight better than that, Adams.’

  ‘What do you mean, bullshit?’

  ‘I mean what I said. You’re talking bullshit. You either need to tell the fucking truth, or learn how to lie properly and pretty bloody quickly.’ Partridge fixed Adams with a piercing stare before pointing at the smouldering helicopter. ‘There’s an officer in there with one of my bullets in his chest. And that’s going to need some explaining. So have a fucking word with yourself, sir.’

  Adams looked at Partridge’s back as the soldier walked off towards the helicopter. What he had just said made perfect sense. Adams knew that if he couldn’t even bluff Partridge, he had no chance of hiding the truth from the police. He would just have to tell them everything, instead of hiding it. It would all come out anyway, but Adams had been thinking that he might be able to protect Major Clarke somehow, even though he’d been about to shoot him.

  He followed Partridge towards the wreckage, keeping a short distance behind him. As they got closer, Adams saw Davies stumbling about near the front of the cockpit, so he broke into a jog and ran towards the pilot.

  ‘Davies?’ Adams asked as he got close to him. He could see blood on Davies’s flying suit, but he didn’t look injured. Just dazed. ‘Are you okay?’

  Davies looked at Adams, the confusion obvious on his face.

  ‘Taff’s dead, Adams,’ he said. ‘Taff’s fucking dead.’ The pilot pointed towards his chest. ‘Rotor blade, big fragment. Got him here.’ Adams reached out and grabbed Davies’s uniform.

  ‘Mate, head over there towards the WMIK,’ Adams said. ‘I’ll meet you there in a minute, I just need to grab my medical bag and I’ll be over.’ Davies looked blankly at the Land Rover. ‘Davies,’ Adams pushed the pilot gently in the small of his back. ‘Go, I’ll see you there.’

  Davies stumbled towards the WMIK, looking over his shoulder at the wreckage of his helicopter. Adams watched him, wondering if he’d ever fly again, or if that would be it for him. He walked towards the cockpit and looked in through the shattered glass. Taff was still sitting in the co-pilot’s seat, his head slightly forwards and with a jagged shard of black carbon sticking out of his chest. The remaining glass in the cockpit was covered in blood. It must be Taff’s blood all over Davies, Adams realised.

  Adams walked around the helicopter to the ramp just as the Apache that he and Partridge had seen in the distance roared overhead. As the noise died down Adams could hear the distinctive ‘thud thud’ of a Chinook in the sky as well. He breathed a sigh of relief. At least they’d be out of this shithole soon. Adams stepped up onto the ramp just as Partridge and another soldie
r were helping Colonel Nick off the helicopter. The doctor was cradling his arm and had a trickle of blood running down from one of his ears.

  ‘Colonel, you okay?’ Adams stepped closer to Colonel Nick and examined his ear.

  ‘Been better, Adams,’ the Colonel replied. Adams could see that the blood was actually coming from a deep cut just above his ear. While the cut would need stitches, this was much better than bleeding from the ear canal itself.

  ‘You’ve got a nick just above your ear,’ Adams said. ‘Might need a plaster, but I think you’ll live.’

  ‘Thanks, Adams,’ Colonel Nick replied with a faint sneer. ‘I feel so much better now.’ He stepped off the ramp and started walking towards the WMIK which had now been joined by two other vehicles. A small group of soldiers was running towards the helicopter, some of them carrying what Adams knew were body bags.

  ‘No one left, Adams,’ Partridge called out over his shoulder as he walked alongside Colonel Nick. ’No one for you, anyway.’

  Adams stepped up onto the ramp and walked into the interior of the Chinook, which was starting to fill up with smoke. Waving his hand in front of his face, he found his medical bag and picked it up, slinging it over his shoulder with a grunt. He stood there for a second, looking around the ruined cabin. Major Clarke was lying on the floor, his sightless eyes staring at the ceiling. Beyond him, Adams could see the crumpled body of another soldier. Must be the anaesthetist, Adams thought as he stepped carefully across towards him. He was still a few feet away when he could see that the doctor was dead. Not just dead, but not in one piece anymore. Fighting down bile, Adams turned and walked back towards the fresh air.

  53

  Brigadier James Foster rubbed the corners of his eyes with his fingers. He could feel a headache coming on as if he had a bad hangover, despite the early hour and the fact he’d not had any alcohol since leaving the United Kingdom weeks ago. His small personal stash of vodka, disguised as a bottle of water, hadn’t lasted the first week. Foster knew that there was some booze in the hospital somewhere as he’d smelt it a couple of times, but as the boss, he couldn’t exactly ask anyone who had any.

  Foster jumped as someone hammered hard on the door to his office. He dislodged his glasses, which fell on the desk next to the telephone. As he swore to himself, the telephone started ringing.

  ‘Come in,’ he shouted as he picked up the phone, holding a hand palm outwards at Lieutenant Abbot who was standing at the door, hopping from foot to foot like a child who needed the toilet. Foster listened for a few seconds before putting the phone back in its cradle.

  ‘I know,’ he said to Abbott. ‘I’m needed in the Ops Room.’ Foster got to his feet and walked across to the door. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Helicopter down, sir,’ Abbott replied. ‘One of the TRT helicopters has gone in.’ Foster looked blankly at him, trying to absorb the news. As if the day couldn’t get any worse.

  ‘Okay, sitrep,’ Foster barked as he walked into the Ops Room. The busy chatter that he’d heard filling the room before entering fell away.

  ‘Good morning, sir,’ the Duty Officer said. Foster appreciated the man trying to be formal, but he could hear the shaking in his voice. ‘This is what we know so far. The CH47 with the medics on was coming in to land on the FOB when they came under fire from somewhere. The pilot wheeled away and aborted the landing, but then the helicopter went in a couple of miles away from the FOB.’

  ‘Have we got any assets at the crash site?’

  ‘Yes, sir, we have now. One of the QRF patrols the other Chinook had put down took off sharpish in a WMIK when the TRT helicopter disappeared. They’re on the scene now — we’re just waiting for an update on casualties from them. There’s a couple of Apaches overhead, and an A10 from Kandahar providing overwatch.’

  ‘That was sporty, following a helicopter in a bloody WMIK,’ Foster said. ‘Probably not the best tactical move, but understandable I suppose.’ The Duty Officer paused, and Foster looked at him. ‘Carry on,’ he said.

  ‘The other Chinook managed to get into the FOB and retrieve the casualties from the earlier incident. And the bodies.’

  ‘Are they coming here?’ the Brigadier asked.

  ‘They’re going to Kandahar, sir,’ the Duty Officer replied. ‘Kandahar Ops insisted. The FOB’s back under control, at least for the moment. One of the Apaches neutralised a sniper hiding in a school.’

  ‘What with?’

  ‘A hellfire, sir,’

  Foster winced at the thought of a hellfire missile hitting a school. Sniper or no sniper, that wasn’t going to go down too well back at home. Something that the Duty Officer had just said reminded him of the team of policemen waiting to interview Major Clarke.

  ‘Shit,’ Foster whispered to himself, breaking one of his cardinal rules about swearing in front of the troops. He looked around to find the young officer who’d come to get him earlier. Finding the Lieutenant, he beckoned him over.

  ‘Go to the isolation ward,’ Foster said when the young man reached him. ‘Get Detective Inspector Griffiths, and bring him here.’

  ‘Here, sir? To the Ops Room?’

  ‘Yes, here,’ Foster said through clenched teeth. ‘Now, please.’

  Foster ran his hands through his hair, looking up at the clocks on the wall. He was going to have to get back on the line with his three-star. This wouldn’t be something that he wanted the Lieutenant General to wake up hearing on the radio while he ate his sandwiches. He felt a tap on his arm and, looking round, saw a cup of coffee being pressed towards him.

  ‘Thank you.’ He managed a smile at the officer who’d brought it to him. He took a sip, managing not to grimace at the taste. Where had the decent coffee gone? He took a few steps across the room towards the radio operator, who was busy scribbling on a pad of paper. Foster waited until he had stopped writing before saying anything, not wanting to disturb him. ‘What have you got?’ he asked.

  ‘Casualty report from the crash site, sir,’ the radio operator said. ‘Two Cat Bs, three Cat Cs, and one uninjured. Three KIA. The casualties are inbound, with an ETA of twenty minutes.’

  ‘Okay, thank you. When the Detective gets here, could you have him brought to my office, please? I need to make some calls.’

  Foster walked into his office a moment later, leaving the door open behind him. He crossed to his desk and sat down before opening a drawer and pulling out a notebook. As he flicked through the notebook to find the number that he had scribbled down earlier, he saw Detective Inspector Griffiths at the door of his office.

  ‘Come in Malcolm, please. Take a seat.’ The detective walked in and sat down opposite Foster, who had found the number that he was looking for in his notebook. ‘What a morning.’ Foster sighed.

  ‘Well, you don’t have to be a detective to tell that something’s going on,’ Griffiths said with a wry smile.

  ‘Yes, well, it concerns your man Clarke. A helicopter’s gone down just outside FOB Robinson.’ Foster watched as the smile disappeared from Griffiths’s face and was replaced by a frown.

  ‘Oh,’ the policeman said as if he wasn’t sure what to say. Which, Foster figured, he probably wasn’t. ‘What’s a FOB?’ Griffiths asked.

  ‘Sorry, Forward Operating Base. A platoon house near one of the villages that we’re trying to influence.’ Foster paused, remembering the hellfire missile and the school. ‘Although influence probably isn’t a word that I’d use at this precise moment in time.’

  ‘Right, I see.’

  ‘I don’t know if Clarke is wounded or dead. There’s both casualties and bodies from the crash on their way back here. It was the helicopter with the medical team on board that went down,’ Foster said. ‘Would you excuse me for a second? I need to make a phone call, and it’s probably not going to be pretty. If you go down to the Ops Room and knock on the door, they’ll be able to get you a coffee. Tell them I sent you, and that I said to give you the decent stuff. Not the crap they just gave me.’

&nbs
p; Griffiths got up from his chair and walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. Realising that this wasn’t a conversation he could have on an insecure line, Foster picked up the secret phone with a sigh.

  ‘MoD operator?’ a voice the other end of the line said.

  ‘Lieutenant General Bertram please.’

  ‘Please hold.’

  Foster listed to the bland on-hold music for what seemed to him like forever before the three-star came on the line. Straight through this time, Foster realised. No staff officers to go through anymore. Things back in Whitehall must be hot.

  ‘What?’ the senior officer said. He wasn’t known for his manners, like most military personnel at that rank.

  ‘Sir, Brigadier Foster here. CO of Bastion Hospital. I have a situation here that I need to appraise you of.’

  Foster spent the next ten minutes bringing his boss back in the United Kingdom up to speed. The three-star had said nothing other than the odd grunt now and again. When Foster had finished, he paused to see what the outcome was.

  ‘Okay, get me a proper sitrep on the dark side when you have it. I particularly need to know the status of Clarke. Far too late to cover it up now, of course. But there may be things we can do to, er, smooth things over as it were.’ The Lieutenant General seemed more bothered about Major Clarke than the downed helicopter and union flag-covered coffins that would be winding their way through British roads in the next few days.

  ‘No problem, sir. I’ll get it to you as soon as I can.’ Foster was just about to say goodbye when he realised that the General had already hung up the phone. ‘You’re welcome, sir,’ Foster said to the empty line.

  He put the handset back on the cradle and looked up at the clock. The casualties would be here in a few minutes. Foster thought that he should probably go to the Emergency Room when they arrived to see who had made it. He’d got no idea how on earth the three-star thought that anything could be smoothed over, with the hospital full of policemen, but he couldn’t do anything about that. Maybe Foster wasn’t the only one who was going to lose out on a gong from the Queen over this sorry mess?