by McNab, Andy
When the convoy arrived back at the FOB it was getting dark. The doors of the wagons opened and Emily was first out, followed by the engineers. Saying nothing, their faces still pinched with shock, they quietly trooped off towards their isoboxes.
The men jumped out, grateful for the silence, the stillness and the evening air, but they were immediately surrounded by the rest of the company, eager for an account of Martyn’s kidnap.
Boss Weeks opened the door at the front of the wagon but he did not dismount. He looked hopefully for Asma among the faces surrounding the Vectors. Jean and Iain Kila were already locked in conversation. But Asma was nowhere to be seen. His eyes searched the base for her. No Asma, but he could see evidence of the news they’d received that Sin City had come under heavy attack today. There was damage everywhere. Sandbags were ragged. A sangar had collapsed in one corner. He hoped Asma was safe. Even if she wasn’t speaking to him.
He heard the 2 i/c greeting Major Willingham.
‘So, sir, do you think there’s any chance we’ll get Topaz Zero back?’
Weeks listened intently to the OC’s answer.
‘No, I don’t. God, what a fucking catastrophe. Nothing happened to us and then everything happened in five minutes. So my career’s pretty much a T4.’
He was aware that someone was standing in the Vector’s open doorway. He glanced down. Asma! He could not stop himself smiling broadly.
Weeks jumped out and she smiled back.
‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time,’ she said.
‘Asma, I want to apologize.’
‘You don’t have anything to apologize for, Gordon.’
‘I didn’t really listen to you, but I’ve had all week to think about what you said. And yesterday proved you right. I’m sure Martyn’s kidnapping was cold, calculated revenge. As cold and calculating as the way we took out their man.’
‘But we heard he walked right up to them! They didn’t plan that bit.’
‘They were certainly planning something. There was evidence that they’d been watching us and perhaps gathering in numbers ready for some kind of ambush.’
‘Shit, Gordon, I want to say I’m sorry too. I’m sorry about all the shit I gave you. I’ve been feeling fucking awful about it.’
‘Don’t apologize for being right,’ he said. They smiled at each other again, more awkwardly this time.
‘When I saw the mess and no sign of you . . .’ Weeks gestured around at the damaged base ‘. . . I was worried that you’d been injured.’
‘Yeah, well, we had an interesting time today. Even Jean had to get out there with a weapon and she could barely remember which end to fire from. The second i/c was just about to ask the cook to get on the .50 when it all stopped.’
Weeks laughed at the thought of the pan-wielding Masud behind such a heavy weapon.
‘Taking Martyn has turned the local Taliban into a bunch of cocky bastards,’ Asma said. ‘The way they were gloating on their mobiles. I just wanted to tell them all to fuck off. Anyway, we can expect a lot more attacks like that now.’
The men sorted out the ammo and the wagons and then began to cluster in the cookhouse. Dave tried to call Jenny but the phones had been taken out of action while relatives were informed of a fatality at another base.
He went to the ops room and found it a hive of activity. Most of the officers were there and Iain Kila was passing around steaming mugs.
‘Second i/c’s too busy to make a brew!’ he explained. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’
‘What’s going on?’
‘All hell’s let loose over Topaz Zero. He’s an international news story now.’
‘So the OC isn’t going to remember that he told me I could get online as soon as we were back to look at the new baby . . .’
Kila, who could carry four mugs of tea at once, plonked them down without finesse and went straight over to the 2 i/c. After a hurried conversation in undertones, the officer got up.
‘Congratulations, Sergeant. But don’t be too long, will you? I’m waiting for an urgent email from the Foreign Office.’
Dave went straight to his inbox and found that Leanne Buckle had sent three sets of pictures. The earliest email said:
Weighed in at 7lbs 9oz, so just as well she didn’t go to term or she’d probably have been a ten-pounder. Completely gorgeous. You are a lucky bastard, Dave Henley. Love, Leanne.
He clicked on the first picture and caught his breath when it filled the screen. There was Jenny, looking tired, her cheeks red and her hair pulled back from her face, but it was her smile that made his eyes dampen. He knew that Jenny had been smiling at the camera just for him. She had the exhausted exuberance of a new mother and that tiny, sleeping bundle she was holding up was his daughter. He bit his lip.
In the next picture Vicky was standing at Jenny’s bedside, peering at the tiny red-faced figure. Both the baby and Vicky surveyed each other solemnly. The scene was lit by Jenny’s smile again.
The most recent set showed the baby asleep and Jenny trying to rearrange her hair. He stared hard. This was Jenny less than twenty-four hours ago. It was the closest he had been to her since leaving the UK. Her smile spoke to him. It said: I love you, I miss you, why aren’t you here? He swallowed.
‘Very nice,’ said the OC, appearing behind him. ‘Now let’s see the baby.’
Dave clicked on the picture of Vicky and her new sister.
‘Good heavens, they both look just like you!’ said the OC.
Dave grinned, pleased.
‘Now, if you don’t mind, Martyn’s capture is causing a political storm . . . But the phones are no longer minimized. I haven’t told the other men yet so that you can be the first.’
Everyone in the cookhouse was watching Martyn on TV. A black-and-white picture of him had suddenly appeared behind the newsreader. In it he was looking a few years younger and had a bit more hair, smiling happily as though he had just won at blackjack. The graphic said HOSTAGE CRISIS.
The reporter looked serious: ‘Mr Robertson, an oilman of many years’ experience, has been actively engaged in an exploration project that experts believe will make a major contribution to the development of Afghanistan. NATO governments, particularly the US and the UK, hope that if the exploration is successful it could offer Afghanistan an alternative income to narcotics. Diplomats are working round the clock behind the scenes to secure his return . . .’
‘Diplomats!’ scoffed Boss Weeks. ‘What diplomatic relations does the British government have with the Taliban?’
Kila shook his head. ‘Poor bastard. Poor fucking bastard.’
‘What are they doing about it apart from talking?’ demanded Mal. ‘Why aren’t they looking all over Helmand Province?’
Finn said: ‘The odds are getting longer every minute.’
The others stared at him.
‘What odds?’
‘You mean, the odds on Martyn coming back alive?’ asked Jamie.
Finn looked around swiftly for Dave. He was not in the cookhouse.
‘Yes, lads, I’m offering Burlington Bertie on Martyn’s safe return. The odds’ll be a lot longer tomorrow so now’s the time for a punt.’
He was met with blank faces.
‘Burlington Bertie. That’s a hundred to thirty. Who’s up for it?’
Dave took the phone to his favourite private corner near the washing place. For once it was deserted.
It took a while to get through to the hospital. He hoped Nurse Prim wouldn’t answer again but he recognized her voice at once. Evidently she recognized him too.
‘Is that the husband who’s in Afghanistan?’ she asked beadily.
‘Yeah. Can I talk to my wife?’
‘It’s taken you a long time to phone. She’ll be going home any day,’ said the nurse.
‘Well, we’re so busy playing cards and watching the grass grow that I just couldn’t be bothered before.’
‘Now, now, there’s no need for sarcasm.’
<
br /> He could hear her carrying the phone through the ward.
‘We were all very shocked to hear that British soldiers have killed some Afghan children,’ she said reproachfully, as if Dave had personally been out spraying bullets into kids.
‘Not guilty,’ he pleaded.
He could hear the cries of babies. His heart thudded. Babies. And one of them was his.
‘Hi, love,’ said Jenny.
He swallowed.
‘Dave? Are you there, love? Oh, don’t say we’ve lost the line!’
‘I’m here, Jen.’
‘Hi, darling!’
‘I couldn’t phone before.’ Bad start. Defensive.
‘Don’t worry, you’re here now.’ She sounded relaxed.
‘Is it all OK? I mean, you’re OK, the baby’s OK, tell me everything’s all right.’ Too anxious.
‘Calm down, everything’s fine. It all happened quickly in the end. There wasn’t even time to do it properly with groans and contractions and things. They just had to get her out so I had a Caesarean. It’s goodbye bikinis, but who cares?’
‘How are you, Jen?’
‘Fine. I’m taking painkillers. But I’ve felt so much better since she was born. All the swelling’s gone, the dizziness has gone. I’ve turned into a gentle old cow, giving milk and more milk.’
‘And the baby?’
‘A bit surprised to find herself out in the real world so suddenly.’
‘Wasn’t ready for deployment?’
‘She responded well to the alert. Now she’s happy as Larry. Likes to be held and cuddled and she’s drinking a lot.’
‘Trish was there?’
‘For the birth? Well, sort of.’
‘Only sort of?’
‘She was there when I came out of the operating theatre.’
‘Oh, shit, shit, you were alone.’
‘Nope. There were doctors and nurses everywhere making a big fuss of me. And then Mum was waiting outside. And then your mum arrived.’
‘Are they both staying at our house?’
‘Yeah, spoiling Vicky rotten.’
‘I’ve only just seen the pictures.’
‘Isn’t she gorgeous?’
‘Yeah,’ said Dave. ‘Yeah. She’s gorgeous. So are you. All I want now is to get home.’
‘Still think the army’s where you want to be?’ Jenny asked.
‘That was a cheap shot.’
She laughed. ‘Just answer the question!’
‘At this moment,’ he admitted, ‘I’m not so sure.’
When the call ended he turned and saw a silent figure, hanging back in the shadows.
‘Jamie Dermott, I should have guessed,’ he said, holding out the phone.
‘I haven’t booked it. But I guessed they weren’t minimized any more . . .’
‘Go on. Phone her. Get it sorted out,’ said Dave.
Jamie was already dialling. He asked how Jenny was but Dave could tell he wasn’t listening to the answer.
About ten minutes later, when Dave was wandering around the base, squinting in the dark at the damage caused by today’s attack, Jamie caught up with him.
‘Well?’ Dave was running his hands over a wall of sandbags and wondering if the engineers would say they should rebuild the whole bloody thing. He looked up. Jamie was smiling.
‘Everything’s fine! She was all over me!’
Dave grinned back at him in the dark. ‘I told you it was only a misunderstanding. Six days with no contact and she’s gagging to talk to you. It just proves you’ve been phoning her too often, mate.’
Chapter Sixty
THE HOSTAGE CRISIS CHANGED EVERYTHING AT SIN CITY. SUDDENLY THE base was the focus of interest – from the international community as well as the Taliban. The major announced that the civilians were to be evacuated. They would be replaced in the isoboxes by top army, Foreign Office and Intelligence personnel.
A line-up of officers waited to receive the VIPs. The base came under frequent attack now and the Chinook was greeted by a volley of fire. Two Apaches hovered on either side, firing back.
Some of the arrivals climbed out looking terrified. A few wore city suits under their body armour. The OC greeted them and the 2 i/c led them away. The OC remained with the small group of soldiers who had assembled to say goodbye to the civilians, departing on the same Chinook.
Emily was tearful.
‘Martyn and I did nothing but argue. But I think we did like each other really,’ she sobbed, as she shook hands with the men.
Finn raised his eyebrows and said nothing.
‘Don’t talk about Martyn in the past tense,’ said the OC. ‘We may get him back yet.’
Emily clearly did not believe him.
She prepared to board the Chinook, handbag glued to her shoulder, bag of papers in her other arm and an engineer carrying her suitcase.
‘Goodbye, my dears,’ she said to Asma and Jean. ‘I appreciate how well you prepared me for the shura. It rates as one of my most fascinating experiences and the young tribesman was a most interesting cultural encounter.’
They did not dare to tell her that the young tribesman had been shot by Special Forces and this action had probably prompted Martyn’s kidnap.
She shook hands with the OC and his officers. ‘Thank you. Thank you for guarding us so well. I owe you all an apology. I have spent the last months telling you that your precautions were unnecessary. I will regret, to the end of my days, that I encouraged Martyn to treat this protection with such disdain. I have made it clear to anyone who will listen that his kidnap is not your fault.’
The OC smiled ruefully. ‘Thanks, Emily. But that may not be enough to save my career.’
The Chinook took off, as it had landed, under fire and accompanied by Apaches.
‘I liked her in the end,’ Asma told Gordon Weeks.
‘Emily?’ he said in surprise. ‘You and she are very different.’
‘You mean, she’s brainy and I’m pretty.’
‘I suppose I do mean that . . .’ He caught himself in time. ‘Although you’re brainy too, of course.’
She laughed. ‘Not bloody quick enough, Gordon. But what I like about Emily is, she knows who she is and what she believes and she sticks to it. She doesn’t care what anyone else thinks of her.’
The helicopters had disappeared. The enemy had stopped firing, although a few enthusiastic lads up in the sangars seemed keen to provoke a bit more of a fight. Jean had been called to the ops room. And, without discussing it, the boss and Asma were wandering towards the cookhouse for a brew. They had started to snatch a few minutes together whenever they could and Weeks suspected that these short meetings were becoming the high point of his day. He even found himself feeling agitated if he didn’t see her for a long time, as though she was a drug he depended on.
‘But you have beliefs which you stick to, surely,’ said the boss now. He was fascinated by her background and returned to the subject as often as she let him.
‘Christ, Gordon, you’re always prodding and poking. Look, I left Islam behind. I left my family behind. I left my husband behind. It doesn’t all add up to a lot of sticking power.’
‘Maybe it just means you can’t do things by halves,’ said Weeks, pouring her a brew. She cupped her hands around the mug as though they were back in England and it was cold outside.
‘When I got married I knew that meant I was leaving my family and leaving Islam. It all seemed far behind me. Until I came here.’
‘So you’ve found your roots again.’
‘Oh, you do talk a lot of crap. I’ve found my fucking DNA. That doesn’t mean I want to rush down the mosque with my shoes off praising Allah. It just means I’m a bit more interesting than someone who’s always lived in one country with one family speaking one language in one way.’ She did not meet his eye.
‘Like me,’ he said. She still did not look at him. ‘So you don’t find me very interesting. You know nothing about what it’s like to be me in my world,
but you’ve decided it’s all farmhouses and polo ponies and therefore not interesting. Maybe you should find out a bit more before you dismiss it.’
He saw her wince a little. He wasn’t really offended. He was just challenging her because he had learned that she liked that.