“Was?”
“He died.”
Nat tightened his embrace. “Where?”
“Not here, and don’t ask me how, ’cause I don’t know.”
“Do you want to know?”
“Some days, but others I reckon how he lived matters more.”
“Is that why you came to Iraq? Walk a mile in his shoes?”
Connor sighed. “He’d have laughed his tits off if he’d heard you say that. Think he reckoned I wasn’t much good for your way of life—too busy farting around with ‘artsy shit’—but in a roundabout way, I suppose I could be trying to prove him wrong. I ran the Brighton Marathon a month after he died . . . like it could fucking change anything. Stupid, eh? And it doesn’t really matter now, does it? He’s still dead, and nothing I’ve seen here makes it any more meaningful.”
“Not much makes death meaningful.” Nat closed his eyes, breathing in the scent of books and paper that seemed to linger around Connor. He wanted—craved—so desperately to know more, to know it all—every joy and hurt that made Connor who he was—but the moment to ask the questions passed before he figured out where to start. Right here, right now, Connor was in his arms, heart beating, and breathing, and Nat didn’t much care about anything else.
Twelve
Nat hadn’t been kidding when he said they were in for a heavy few days. Charlie-3 and Echo-4 went out every night, chasing down the cell who’d attacked the palace, and by day, they all—Connor included—pitched in with cleanup operation.
It didn’t leave time for much else. Connor spent his nights on the roof, watching the horizon for any sign of the team’s safe return, while he tapped away on his laptop, one of his few surviving possessions from the palace raid. Everything else had been lost to the rubble, something that didn’t bother him as much as it did the rest of the team.
“We don’t go home much, mate,” Bobs had said. “So we carry what matters on our backs.”
His words had touched Connor, and got him thinking about how little he truly knew about life beyond this war for these men. Christ, he didn’t even know if Nat had a home.
You know he can fuck, though . . .
Heat stirred in Connor’s veins. He pushed it back. His encounter with Nat in what had turned out to be Uday Hussein’s disused recording studio, was a little surreal now. After, Nat had disappeared to be briefed on the follow-up action while Connor had watched eight coffins being loaded for transport. It appeared to be all in a day’s work for most souls in the palace, but he’d felt each loss of life like a punch in the gut. It seemed so pointless.
Connor shut his laptop and slid on his stomach to the edge of the roof. It was two in the morning, but he wouldn’t have guessed it from the flurry of activity below. Since the raid, the palace had been more abuzz than ever.
A helicopter roared up above. Connor tracked it until it disappeared into the inky sky, wondering if Nat was on board. The team had been cagey about their movements the last few nights, but Connor had caught a few furtive whispers of stealthy night drops deep into insurgent territory. How the team found their way back, he wasn’t sure. He just knew that he looked up at some point every morning to find Nat watching him, smirking, like he was remembering everything Connor would never forget.
“Anyone ever tell you you’re hot as fuck when you’re pissed off?”
Ha. It had been a long time since anyone had told him he was hot as fuck at all.
“Bird watching again?”
Connor jumped, and jerked around to find Nat behind him, his grin weary, but as devilish as ever. “How did you get up here without me seeing you?”
“Up the stairs, you melon.”
“The stairs? You mean I’ve been risking my neck shimmying up the wall all this time for no reason?”
Nat’s grin widened. “Nah. Getting to crawl up behind you and ogle your arse is reason enough.”
Connor matched Nat’s smile with a heartfelt one of his own. He loved this playful side of Nat, so rarely seen in the harsh reality of life in Basra. Moments like these were stolen and precious, and Connor banked every one of them in the fast-growing “Nat” part of his soul. “You’re back early. How was your night?”
Nat’s expression grew serious. “Interesting. We may have a lead.”
“A lead on what? Behrouz?”
“Maybe.” Nat drifted closer and lay down beside Connor, so close their shoulders touched. “The Mahdi boys we pulled out of the IED factory have started to talk. Word has it they don’t get on with the cell firing the rockets.”
“Wedge said that might be the case. So they’re not all fighting for the common good, then?”
Nat shrugged. “They might be, but a power vacuum is a power vacuum, and it’s always going to bring out the darker side of men. They want us dead, but they’ll kill each other to get to our graves first.”
Connor absorbed Nat’s grim prophecy with a shudder. “What did they say? Do they know who the other cell are?”
“If they do, they aren’t giving it up . . . yet, but there’s been mention of a badass head honcho running the show, an old-school Shiite jihadi, Bedouin roots. The gang laying the IEDs were small-time, barely more than kids, really. The rocket crew? If they’re responsible for the abductions Troop-6 dealt with before we got here, and killing that nurse a few weeks back, then it looks like we’re chasing some nasty motherfuckers.”
“Did they say anything about where the weapons are coming from?”
Nat shrugged. “Nothing of any use. It seems to come back to that mosque, but we didn’t get to check it out when we shut down the IED facility, and we don’t have the manpower to raid it. The airport is taking more hits than we are here, so it’s all hands on deck to keep the bases safe until we get extra boots on the ground.”
Connor nudged Nat until he met his brooding gaze. “It’ll be okay, though, won’t it? You’ve done this before?”
“We’ve tried.”
The implication that they’d also failed hit Connor like a stone. He’d been in Iraq for little more than a month and already seen so much loss. Christ, he’d seen the loss, felt it, endured it, before he’d even got here. In the murky light of the moon, he wasn’t sure he had the stomach for more. “How many friends has this war cost you?”
Nat didn’t answer immediately. He rolled over and stared at the sky, like he was counting the stars. “I used to remember every man I ever saw die . . . even the ones from the other side. I saw their faces every time I closed my eyes, but life, ha, yeah, life moves on, and this war? Fuck, since this war started I only see one, which is bloody ironic, ’cause I wasn’t there when he died.”
“Where were you?”
“Getting shot somewhere else.”
Nat got to his feet, effectively ending the conversation. He held out his hand, pulling Connor up and crushing him in the strong embrace Connor had come to crave when Nat wasn’t close by. His hold was consuming and comforting, and for the long moment he held Connor, the brutal world around them faded away.
But it couldn’t last forever, and nor could the kiss that came next. Connor chased the sensation of Nat’s lips bruising his as Nat pulled back with a regretful half smile.
“Come on. Let’s go to bed.”
If only.
Connor woke alone the next morning. The cramped alcove Charlie-3 had relocated to was empty, with only a few abandoned sleeping bags to show the rest of the team had been there at all.
He sat up. There weren’t many people around, but something felt off. Still half-asleep, he scrambled out of bed and jammed a toothbrush in his mouth, then set about searching out Charlie-3, or at least someone who knew where they’d gone.
He found Echo-4 first, gathered outside by their Jackal, expressions as grim as he’d ever seen them. Only Harry was missing. “What’s up?”
John shot Connor a dark look. “Monday mornings suck arse.”
“What’s happened?”
“Want a bloody list?” Dick said.
“Try me.”
“Harry’s gone home,” Tom said. “The missus got banged up in a car wreck. Flew him out an hour ago. The Jackal’s fucked too. Water tank burst. Wetter than a bloody otter’s pocket in there.”
“Shit.” Connor felt awful for Harry, but sensed there was something more. “What else?”
Silence. Connor’s heart jumped into his throat. “Where’s Charlie-3?”
“Briefing room,” Dick said. “Our turn next. Fuck’s sake. It’s almost like they want us to get pissing slotted.”
Any further explanation was interrupted by Charlie-3 emerging into the bright, early morning sun. Nat met Connor’s gaze for a brief moment, but his face was unreadable. He turned his attention to John.
“OC’s calling, mate.”
John scowled. “Fucking Grim Reaper, you mean. Come on, lads.”
Echo-4 stomped inside, leaving Connor as mystified as ever. “Someone want to fill me in?”
Nat blew out a gust of cigarette smoke. With the sun glinting off the golden scruff on his jaw, he was more gorgeous than Connor had ever seen him, but a sigh, it seemed, was his only answer.
Connor looked to Wedge, who spat on the ground. “Command reckon they’ve solved the troop-shortage problem. Sending us a bunch of green-eared Iraqi teenagers to plug the gap. Genius, eh?”
“They won’t all be teenagers,” Bobs said. “Cunt who done Pogo was twenty-eight.”
Uneasy nerves bubbled in Connor’s gut. “Who was Pogo?”
“The bloke in charge of training them. They crept up on him and shot him dead in his bed.”
Connor stared at Bobs, aghast. “Who’s going to be responsible for them here . . .?”
The words died on his lips as his gaze fell on Nat. “Seriously? How many are coming?”
“Too many,” Wedge said.
Connor shook his head, eyes still on Nat, who remained silent. “I don’t see how you have the time to train Iraqi soldiers. How’s that going to work with everything else you have to do?”
No one had an answer to that. Connor wondered what would fall by the wayside first: protecting the palace, securing the city, or simply the well-being of the men. Probably the latter, if the last few weeks were anything to go by. “What are you going to do?”
“Follow our orders.” Nat trod on his cigarette butt. “And stop dicking about gossiping. Fuck this shit. Let’s move.”
Connor lost track of Charlie-3 after that, but later in the day, a hum of activity at the gates caught his attention. He climbed on the Jackal to get a better view as a convoy of vehicles entered the compound. There was nothing unusual about that, but the occupants of the third vehicle—the largest troop carrier he’d seen so far—stood out, even from his distant vantage point.
The vehicles stopped. Ten or so men in Iraqi Army uniforms disembarked and assembled in an orderly line. Bobs had been right—most of them were far from teenagers, and they were all immaculately groomed, in stark contrast to the Western men, the OC included, who materialised to greet them.
The OC spoke. Connor wished he was close enough to decipher his welcome. Rumour had it he was as pissed off as everyone else about the arrival of the Iraqi recruits, but Connor didn’t much care what he thought. He’d lost faith in the gruff major in recent weeks. His only comfort was the Iraqi men didn’t appear to be armed.
Yet.
“What do you see?”
Connor swallowed the disquiet threatening to overwhelm him as Nat leaped onto the Jackal with his usual leonine grace. “Me? Why aren’t you down there with the others?”
“Didn’t feel like it.”
Connor rolled his eyes, knowing Nat well enough to take his flippancy with a pinch of salt. “What should I be looking for?”
“Nothing that you’ll see right now.” Nat lit a cigarette—his consumption had crept up in the last few days—and jammed it in the corner of his mouth. “At least, nothing that they’ll think you’ll see.”
“Stop talking in riddles.”
“Riddles? How old are you, mate, fifty?”
Connor scowled. “Glad to see you’re not letting the fear of assassination affect your humour.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“No?” Connor turned his attention back to the recruits, trying to pick out a would-be assassin from the orderly line of men. “Feeling invincible, are we?”
“Not even close. If they want to put a bullet in me, chances are they’ll get it done. I’ve just got to make sure they don’t slot anyone else first. Come find me later, yeah? I need to catch up with your gossip column.”
Nat jumped down from the Jackal and strode away, leaving Connor to swallow the lump in his throat, and the words he knew he’d never say.
I can’t lose you too.
He was still feeling rather emotional when Bobs sought him out a little later.
“Fancy a go on the firing range?”
Connor shut his notebook and tucked his pencil behind his ear. “Seriously?”
Bobs shrugged. “Might as well. I’m training the Mujahedeen anyway. What do you say? Want to fire a big-arse gun?”
“Fuck yeah.” Connor scrambled to his feet and trailed Bobs to the firing range, which had been repaired since the RPG raid on the palace. There they found Wedge and Chris, watching over five of the Iraqi recruits. “Where’s the rest of them?”
“Fitness testing. This lot aced it, so we figured we’d get ’em on the range. See how they handled their AKs.” Bobs began passing out the Russian-made assault rifles. “They ain’t loaded,” he said in Arabic. “So don’t get any ideas.”
He handed Connor a different gun. Connor held it up to the sun. It looked like Nat’s gun. “A Minimi?”
“Yep. Got a resupply of rounds. Otherwise, we’d be training with fecking water pistols.”
Unfortunately, Connor could believe it.
“Right,” Bobs said. “Let’s get shit done.”
Getting shit done turned out to be an intensive crash course in how to handle, fire, and clean every weapon Bobs could lay his hands on—AKs, Minimis, M16s, and even the smaller pistols Connor had never noticed Nat and his men carrying.
The session was fascinating. Connor had never been into guns, but he couldn’t deny the sensation of the heated metal in his hands was more than a little electrifying. So much so, it took him a while to pick up on the heavy tension blanketing his immediate surroundings. He took his last turn at the targets, guided by Bobs, and fired a burst of rounds that were way off to the left, but still better than anything he’d managed so far.
Bobs nodded his approval. “Good work. Make a grunt out of you yet. Go get cleaned up.”
Connor took the backhanded praise and his borrowed Mimini to Chris to learn the basics of weapon maintenance. And basic, it was. Chris ran through the process too fast for Connor to glean any real idea of how to clean down the Minimi.
“Sorry, mate,” Chris said. “Need to get you squared away before Nat turns up and gets his knickers in a twist.”
“Nat?”
“Yup. Probably didn’t cross Bobs’s pretty little mind, but I reckon Nat will do his nut if he finds out we put a loaded gun in your hand.”
Connor took a pointed look around at the collection of spectators observing the training session. “You don’t think he’ll hear it from someone else?”
Chris met Connor’s gaze with a wry smirk. “Trust me, no one here is watching you, so I doubt it’ll get back to him anytime soon.”
It took a moment for the reality of Chris’s words to sink in. Then Connor looked around again and saw that every eye—and gun—in sight was trained on the Iraqi recruits, tracking them, scrutinising them, clearly ready to react if they made the slightest move out of line. “This threat is serious, isn’t it?”
“Deadly,” Chris said. “Now scram, before you get us all in trouble.”
Connor did as he was told, and spent the rest of the day studying similar sessions and trying to decipher why Bobs had invited him to
take part in the first place.
His answer came later, when he happened across Bobs at dinnertime and they retrieved their slop from the mess together.
“You helped me focus. It ain’t easy to hand loaded guns to a bunch of jundis and not shit my pants.”
It was the first time he’d heard any of Charlie-3, Nat aside, admit they felt afraid. Bobs said the words like they meant nothing, but to Connor they meant everything. Perhaps he was worth confiding in after all.
Later that night, Connor tracked down Nat to Echo-4’s broken Jackal.
“It’s fucked,” Nat said by way of greeting. “And we don’t have the parts to fix it.”
The sight of Nat, bare-chested and covered in oil was somewhat distracting. Connor leaned on the Jackal and peered into the open bonnet. “I’ve got no idea what I’m looking at.”
“There’s a surprise.”
“Fuck you.”
Nat grinned and held up a small tube. “Careful what you wish for.”
“K-Y Jelly? You mean to tell me you’ve had that in your pocket all this time?”
“Not me, knobber. We keep it with the HMGs; it’s easier to get hold of than gun grease. I can put it back if you like?”
“Give it here.” Connor plucked the tube from Nat’s hand and stuffed it in his pocket. “Never know when I might fancy some birdwatching.”
“One track mind, eh?”
“Fuck you.”
Nat wiped his hands on a rag and pointed to the roof. “Lead the way, then.”
Connor wasn’t naïve enough to believe Nat would actually let him fuck him on the roof of Basra Palace—or indeed fuck him at all. Everything about Nat screamed control—but he preceded Nat inside anyway, and up on the roof, as Nat grabbed him and pushed him, face-first, against the sun-warmed stone wall, it didn’t matter. He’d take Nat any way he could have him.
Nat snaked his arm around Connor’s throat and brought his lips to his ear. “Not sure I want to inflict those welly-boot Army johnnies on you, but I reckon we can put that lube to good use.”
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