Howard folded his arms. “The Government keeps secrets, Sarah. You know that as well as anyone. I cannot give you the location until you’ve been given the proper clearances. I promise that at the end of a short helicopter ride, all will be revealed. After that, you can choose to help us or not. A quick signature on an Official Secrets document and you can stay or leave at your leisure.”
Sarah chewed her bottom lip. She was distrustful of anyone with a Government stamp on their paycheques, but she had to know what was going on and why Howard knew so much about her. Her natural proclivity was to investigate, and it was very hard to fight against. She needed to find out what was going on.
“Okay,” she said, “but you try to stick a blindfold on me and I’ll bite your face.”
Howard raised an eyebrow. “There won’t be any need for that.”
And there wasn’t. When Sarah stepped into the back of the helicopter, she found that the windows on both sides had been blacked out. All she could see was the passenger cabin and the cockpit ahead.
The man behind the controls was a giant. His shoulders were twice the width of the seat and bulged out on either side. His neck was as thick as Sarah’s thigh, and his face was almost as ugly as hers.
“This is Mandy,” Howard said, getting into the co-pilot’s seat.
“Mandy? Isn’t that a girl’s name?”
“His name is Manny Dobbs,” said Howard. “Mandy is just a nickname. Yours is going to be ‘pain-the-arse’ if you don’t start being nicer.”
“Scarface would suit me better.”
“Bit cliché, don’t you think?”
Sarah shrugged. “Oldies are the goodies.”
Howard turned back to face the front and exchanged a few quiet words with Mandy. Soon the engine started up and the rotors began spinning. The gentle rocking gave way to a sudden lurch, and then they were off, airborne.
“The flight will take about forty minutes,” Howard informed her. “Take a load off and I’ll tell you when we’re near.”
Sarah eased back in her seat. As she glanced around, she noticed that much of the interior differed from the utilitarian RAF model she was used to. Nylon rigging and handholds lined the cabin’s roof, and additional compartments and cabinets had been installed. Even the cockpit was sleeker than what she was used to. The stark dashboard had been replaced by something more akin to a modern day 4x4 than a military helicopter.
Once again Sarah wondered, and worried, who exactly she’d agreed to ride along with. Whoever they were, they were no branch of the Military that she knew of. Perhaps they were civvies or some sort of private organisation, but the way Howard had fought her, and the fact that he carried a concealed weapon, made her wonder if that could be true either.
All of these thoughts tired her, and the comfort of the chair sucked her inwards, swaddling her like a colicky babe. She couldn’t help but close her eyes and take a nap.
AFGHANISTAN, 2008
The heat in Afghanistan was like everything else in Afghanistan: out to kill you. It burned your skin, without you realising it, until you took a shower and gritted your teeth as your whole body screamed.
While some parts of the country were green and pleasant, others were nothing but mud and desert, or mountainous rock and shale. When the wind was up, you couldn’t open your eyes for fear of getting grit in them. But all that paled in comparison to the people. There was no difference between the civilians who wanted to help and the Taliban who wanted blood. Both looked and dressed the same, and both waved and smiled whenever they saw British soldiers. It was like fighting with shadows, impossible to tell friend from foe.
That was why Sarah was glad she was getting out. She’d entered Sandhurst Military Academy because that was what members of her family did — at least that’s what the men did. The Armed Forces were an esteemed tradition in the Stone family, and joining had seemed like a good way to impress her father, but it had only horrified him. He had sent her to college to become a lawyer or a vet, not a butch Jane with a rifle she was too dainty to handle. Her father, most of all, would be pleased that she was now finally making the decision to leave the Army and play homemaker. But she wasn’t doing it for him, she was doing it for Thomas.
Sarah met Thomas at Camp Bastion, a British military base the size of Reading. The US Camp Leatherneck adjoined it and their personnel would often come onto British turf to share intel, play sports, or take advantage of the softer alcohol rules. While there was always a ‘them and us’ mentality between the two camps, there was also a great camaraderie.
Thomas was a Ranger with the 75th, an officer who’d come to share information on a Taliban enclave his squad had surveyed in a surrounding village. He didn’t have the forces to deal with it himself and there were no significant US reinforcements in the area. As the village was covered by a British patrol route, Sarah was obliged to hear Thomas out and act on his intel. His offer of sharing a bootleg bottle of wine with her in the Officer’s NAFFY that same evening had been above and beyond what was expected, but somehow his wide smile and Floridian drawl had won her over. Eight months and several sneaky bottles of wine later, they got wed in a modest ceremony in front of Camp Bastion’s chaplain. She and Thomas flittered between bases as often as they could, but eventually one of their romantic liaisons had led to something quite unexpected. In the harsh, rocky plains of Afghanistan, Sarah had gotten pregnant with an American Sergeant. They were going to be a family, albeit one separated by gunfire, hostile territory, and nationality.
Thomas had decided that the only way to be together was to quit the Army. Surprisingly, Sarah had been more than happy to oblige. The thought of playing homemaker was unexpectedly appealing to her. She gave her notice to leave the British Army, while Thomas was almost out of his contract with the United States. Their future was set in motion. Soon they would begin a life together in sun kissed Florida. The only thing Sarah had left to worry about now was informing her CO that she’d gotten pregnant in the line of duty. It was frowned upon, to say the least.
“Eyes on,” said her Glaswegian corporal, Hamish Barnes. The hulking lad, with the beaten face of a regimental boxing champion, had the wheel of the Land Rover Snatch-2. Sarah sat beside him. In the back were three privates still in nappies, and Sergeant Ernie Miller. The Helmand village of Larurah lay ahead. It was a confirmed ‘friendly’ village, but that meant very little out here in the desert. Allegiances seemed to shift overnight in Afghanistan.
They were on their way to meet with a village elder and his wife, who had potential information on an influential Taliban leader, Al Al-Sharir. Sarah had been sent as the liaison because she had a knack for sorting out the lies from the truth. She was to meet up with the female engagement squad at the far side of the village. The engagement squad would be accompanied by a couple of patrol squads to keep them safe.
Female soldiers couldn’t go anywhere in the desert without an escort. Strictly speaking, the British Army didn’t like sending women into the field, but Sarah had a way of interacting with the locals, prodding at them subtly and making them drop their guards. Fortunately, her CO, Major Burke, was enlightened enough to break protocol and treated Sarah based on her ability, not on her sex. She was often allowed to travel alone with only her squad as protection. She guessed her father’s name had a lot to do with the special treatment.
Little was known about Al-Sharir, but the native Afghan had taken responsibility for a host of recent attacks against British and American personnel. He hadn’t claimed association with the Taliban, yet he’d been spotted with several known members in the region. One week ago, Al-Sharir had commanded a small insurgency that had resulted in an American transport truck being flipped by an antique soviet RPG-7. Three servicemen had died and a fourth had gone back to his family without his left arm. Finding Al-Sharir had become one of the campaign’s biggest priorities after finding Bin Laden himself.
Up ahead, several villagers gathered in front of a banged-up Toyota Corolla. The vehicle�
�s white paint had rusted and the front wheels were missing. The villagers were using it as a place to sit and spectate. With little means of entertainment, it was something for them to do. Having been liberated from the Taliban, the village was now unoppressed, but many still felt the constraints of fear. The Taliban was a looming presence over the country and many feared reprisals. The people here still weren’t free, even after being liberated.
Ahead, there was an overturned watermelon cart in the middle of the road. A lone woman ran about, trying to pick up the spilled fruit, tripping over her burkha. No men were offering to help her, because she was a woman.
“Halt here,” said Sarah. “We’re going to help.”
Hamish glanced at her uneasily.
“Just do it,” she snapped. She hadn’t fought her way to Captain only to watch ignorant men ignore a woman in need.
“Is there a problem, captain?” Sergeant Miller stepped out the back of the Snatch and joined up with her. He looked concerned.
“Help me get this fruit cart back on its wheels.”
“Do we have the time?”
“We’ll make time,” Sarah snapped. “Now come on.”
Miller nodded and moved up beside the cart, taking hold of one side, waiting for Sarah to grab the other. Men and women watched from a dozen nooks and crannies, but there were no children running about, which was strange. The local kids were always interested in soldiers arriving.
The woman in the burkha bowed and stepped out of their way, moving over by an old well. As Sarah glanced at the woman, she noticed the missing left hand. Sarah wondered which man had taken it from her: her father, her brother, or some random male who felt he had the right to maim a woman?
“You ready?” asked Miller irritably. “This thing looks like it weighs a shit-ton.”
Sarah nodded and grabbed the other side of the watermelon cart.
Miller started a countdown. “After three, ready? One…two…”
Sarah glanced at the woman standing by the well and noticed her eyes narrow and crinkle at the edges, almost as if she were smiling. Or even laughing at them.
“Three!”
Sarah leapt back, but before she had chance to warn her sergeant, Miller lifted the watermelon cart.
Something clicked, and then exploded.
Sarah felt herself take flight. Her body was weightless. Her senses merged into a confused blur. She didn’t know which way her body was facing when she hit the dirt, but she knew that she didn’t want to get up.
The world came rushing back in a maelstrom of colour and sound. The first thing she saw was the watermelon cart ablaze. The second thing she saw was Miller, lying dead less than a dozen yards away, both his legs missing and a pool of blood soaking the ground beneath him.
The sound of gunfire filled the air.
Suddenly Sarah felt weightless again. Her body left the ground and flew backwards. At first she thought she’d been captured and was being taken away to some nightmarish fate, but then she heard Hamish’s reassuring voice.
“You’re gun be right, Captain. Everything’s gun be right.”
“Miller?” Sarah managed to mumble.
“He’s gone. We need to bolt.”
Hamish dragged Sarah over to the Snatch where the three privates were providing nervous covering-fire. This reminded Sarah that she was in charge. The men needed her to take them to safety. It was her fault they were in this situation.
“Everyone, back inside the Snatch,” she commanded, back in control of herself. “We’re getting out of here, now.”
The three privates fired off a short burst of gunfire from their SA80s, then threw themselves into the rear of the armoured Land Rover. Hamish took the wheel and Sarah pulled herself in beside him. Before he started the engine, however, the corporal gave her a worried glance, examining her.
“Everything’s going to be fine,” she said. “We’ll be sharing a pint down the NAFFY before the day is through.”
Hamish nodded, but his craggy face was pale. His thick bottom lip quivered.
Sarah thumped the dashboard. “Sodding move it!!”
Hamish gunned the engine and shot them into reverse. He pulled on the handbrake and spun the vehicle around, but by the time he’d shifted into first, ready to speed away, insurgents had lined the road, blocking their exit. They fired their AK-47s and bullets hit the Snatch’s reinforced windscreen and front grill like a swarm of hornets.
Sarah clenched her fists. “Shit! They’re going to rip us to pieces. Turn us around! We’ll head through the village.”
Hamish spun the Snatch around again, giant tyres crunching over watermelon and splintered wood. From the top cover, the three privates returned fire.
A cloud of dust coughed up behind the Snatch as they picked up speed.
“Watch the well,” Sarah shouted as Hamish drove within feet of the crumbling brick reservoir. The woman who’d tricked them was now firing a hunting rifle at them with careful aim. She used the stump of her left arm as a rest for the barrel.
The woman faded into the distance as Hamish brought the Range Rover up to sixty.
Sarah’s hands were cold and shaking. Blood dripped down her shirt and onto her arms. She reached forward and pulled down the Snatch’s sun visor and mirror.
A wounded stranger stared back at Sarah. The left side of her face was blackened and bloody. Muscle and tendon glistened within a deep crevice of flesh. A shard of wood lay embedded in her cheek, but was too deep to extract.
Sarah fought back revulsion and tried to stay focused. It was a nasty wound, sure to leave at least a small scar, but it wasn’t as bad as it could have been. She could have died. Miller had.
The thought of death made Sarah woozy. Her hand shot to her belly as overwhelming horror took over her; fear for her unborn child. Hamish’s voice managed to bring her back from the brink of panic.
“Which way?” Hamish asked her, his usually gravelly voice now high-pitched and overwrought. “Captain, which way?”
Sarah looked around. The village was a maze of alleyways and crumbling, flat-topped buildings, each one a hiding spot for an RPG or high-powered rifle. Death could come at them a dozen ways. “Go….go…go left. Left, damn it!”
Hamish spun the wheel and whipped the Snatch around to the left, slotting the vehicle into an alleyway between a mosque and a two-story domicile. Villagers leapt into doorways, yelling out insults as they avoided the giant tyres of the Range Rover. Some threw stones, bouncing off the bonnet. Hamish put his foot down.
The gunfire faded behind them.
The three privates pulled themselves back inside the Snatch’s rear cabin and sat down, panting and gibbering with relief. The battle was over, they were home free.
Sarah put her fingertips to her face and winced at the pain. Now that the danger was over, she started to freak out. Miller is dead and I’m hurt. I need to know that my baby is okay. Sarah clutched her stomach and began to sob.
Hamish glared at her. “Get your shit together, Captain.”
Sarah choked back a sob and nodded. “I…I screwed up. This is all my fault.”
Hamish kept his eyes forward, concentrating on the dirt road. “Way I see it, the witch with the watermelons is to blame. I don’t know about you, but I’m coming back here with the Second Royals to flatten this place into dust. Focus on that, not on what you could have done.”
Sarah nodded. He was right. There was nothing to be done now, but respond to the situation. She needed to get back and report. She needed to check on her baby. Camp Bastion awaited, less than two hours away.
“Step on it,” Sarah said, gritting her teeth as shock gave way to lucid pain and rising agony. “The sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can come back and rain hell down on this goddamn village.”
“Amen to that,” said Hamish, flooring the accelerator. He pulled right, putting the village behind them.
The last thing Sarah saw was the horizon disappearing from the windscreen as the nose of the Sn
atch rose up into the air, riding on a blanket of roaring flames, before crashing back down on its roof.
THE CUCKOO’S NEST
Sarah bucked forwards and gasped. For a second she thought she’d been struck by that IED all over again. When she saw Howard staring back at her from the cockpit, she registered where she really was.
“You okay, Sarah?” Howard asked.
“Fine. Just a dream.”
“It was good timing you woke up now. We’ve arrived.”
Sarah went to look out the window, but remembered they were blacked-out. “Where are we, exactly?” she asked.
Howard smirked. “Not until you sign the paperwork.”
Sarah rolled her eyes, then rubbed at them. Her cheap, yet ever-reliable Casio watch, informed her she’d been asleep for only thirty minutes.
The helicopter tilted forward and rotated, losing altitude. Despite his lumbering appearance, Mandy kept impressive control over the aircraft and brought them down smoothly. When they finally touched down, Sarah barely felt it.
Howard hopped out of the front passenger seat and slid the side passenger door open. Sunlight flooded in and Sarah shielded her eyes as she got out.
“Good day for it,” Howard said.
“That remains to be seen.” Green fields and trees stretched for miles, in every direction. “We’re in the middle of nowhere,” she noted.
“Not as far from civilisation as you might think, but we do have our privacy, that’s for sure.”
Sarah turned another circle, hoping to catch something she might have missed the first time around, but there was nothing. “Why have you brought me to an empty field?” she asked.
Mandy stepped out from behind the helicopter and stood beside Howard like a marble statue. Howard pulled a small tablet from inside his jacket and held it to his ear. “We’re here,” he said, and ended the call.
Soft Target (Major Crimes Unit Book 2) Page 3