‘Cool,’ Mark said. ‘You’ve got to have your team.’ Luke thought there was something familiar about the young lance corporal, but he didn’t say anything and just listened.
‘Aye, well. Scullion certainly knows his team. And he gave the IRA a right shoeing as well. A brutal cunt is what they say. Republicans, Republican Guard: he wiped half of them before they could even get their sandshoes on. Did the whole thing on expensive whisky and a raging fucken hard-on for modern warfare. Knows everything. Goes into battle with a book in his hand. A brainbox. Like Tim Collins, man. I’m talking supersoldier and I’m not kidding on. Goes hard. Could melt a platoon without trying. Half of the pikeys in here would surrender to his fucken verbals alone.’
‘Easy, boys,’ Luke said from behind.
‘What the fuck …’
‘Shut yer cake-hole. Captain Campbell here. Yer in mixed company, boys.’ The lance corporal turned when he heard the Scottish accent, but then he put his eyes front.
‘You tell them, sir,’ said Private Lennox, squeezing into the back row and stealing the captain’s roll-up from behind his ear. ‘Fucken Aquafresh sitting there. A tube wi’ three stripes.’ Dooley said it loud enough for the staff sergeant to hear.
‘That’s enough,’ Luke said. They all enjoyed a bit of inter-regimental strife, but he wanted to get back in focus.
There was a lot of noise in the hall and every soldier was hungry to get past the mountains and do some damage. Dooley, Flannigan and Lennox kept close to the captain, but he wasn’t paying much attention to them. He was busy waiting for Scullion to come through the door, looking for signs that the major was under control.
When Scullion came in Luke saw Rashid behind him. Jamal Rashid was a good soldier in the Afghan army, a captain in fact, and he had emerged during training at Camp Bastion as a future military leader and an effective speaker of English. He had an eyepatch and it made him seem very distinguished to Scullion. The Afghan captain was a one-man justification for the surge: ‘Look,’ they said, ‘look at him; in ten years’ time the country will be filled with Rashids.’
He was always with Scullion that summer and it sometimes appeared that Scullion’s last great push was to show Rashid the old arts. Only Luke knew how tough that must have been. Scullion had scars in places nobody would ever see and he wasn’t sleeping. He was falling apart. Looking from the back row, the captain remembered a night two years before, a night he spent with the major and a bottle of Bushmills. Scullion had spoken of a terrible thing that had happened in Bosnia. A squaddie had his face torn off by a sniper in Vitez in 1993, right next to the major, who had been friends with the young man. But all that stuff had taken its toll. Luke remembered how the major loved the old ballads and said his mother had sung them at lock-ins in Mullingar.
Scullion had persuaded himself, just about, that creating electricity and irrigating the warlords’ poppy fields was a better idea than blasting the population from its caves. In his heart, Scullion felt the Afghans had been destroyed by corruption, by keeping faith with sociopaths and fascists. He agreed with those who spoke of an international caliphate, an order of terror, and, in his militant dreams, he believed such murderers might eventually be bombed into civilisation. This was the war. Scullion felt that bomb strikes and ground troops were the only way because these people didn’t respect talks. What they liked was to cut people’s heads off live on the Internet. What they liked was to cut out the enemy’s liver and eat it. He often said this, but he said many things and now he was trying irrigation.
It had taken a while to reach Trinity College, a while to reach Edmund Burke, then Gower Street in London, University College and afternoon walks round the British Museum. It took a while for him to learn that kneecappings and beheadings might be beaten by good will and enlightenment, but Charles Scullion was still arguing with himself. In his heart he was old school. Since Christmas in Helmand he had held the coalition line on peace-building while thinking constantly of the trigger. When Luke examined his face he saw the eyes of a little counter-assassin from Westmeath. They were fogged with humanitarianism and strict orders, but they were still the eyes of a man who knew what to do in a dark alleyway.
Smoke, trepidation, farts. The air-conditioning could do its best but the room was unpleasant. Luke nodded at the major as he lifted the pointer. He was probably going to be okay because he’d got whatever it was out of his system and Luke imagined the Xanax must have dipped his headlamps. He appeared to be breathing normally and thinking straight, his silver hair combed into a neat parting and his eyes blue. Scullion placed a volume of Matthew Arnold’s poems on the table.
Rashid was the only ANA soldier in the room. With the eyepatch and the blue uniform he stood out. ‘Okay, fellas,’ Scullion said. ‘You all have your jobs. Many of you will be cheered to learn that some senior officers, including yours truly, will be on the ground for this mission.’ He was leaning on the pointer with his sleeves rolled up. Luke reminded himself of an old truth about briefings: they are never brief. Yet Scullion could bring the weather in on time. ‘I will be travelling with a section of the Royal Western Fusiliers deployed here in a mentoring capacity. But you all have a mentoring role in this operation: be sure to show our local colleagues how to behave.’ Scullion seemed to absorb a cold look from Rashid. ‘And learn from them, too,’ he added. The hall shifted from one foot to the other and Rashid wiped his good eye.
‘Recent events in this theatre notwithstanding,’ Scullion said, ‘I believe our mission is absolutely clear. This will be a major development project for the Afghan people. Five dozen officers have worked for six months preparing the way. We bring clean water, we also bring culture. Now listen. This is Operation Eagle’s Summit. By necessity and by grand design, our job is to facilitate the onset of prosperity among the peasants. Putting aside our previous efforts to bomb them to kingdom come, we now rectify all political errors by giving them light and water. The operation’s code name is T2. Remember that. You are part of a convoy led by 13 Air Assault delivering a third turbine to the great dam at Kajaki. HET trucks will carry the blessed item in seven parts weighing thirty tons each. Assuredly, these vital organs will pump new blood to the valley. We’re talking fifty-one megawatts of new power. Got that? A great sufficiency of electrical power and enough water flowing through to irrigate 650,000 acres of arid land. Tune your PRRs to channel one for minute-by-minute instructions.’
The troops felt inspired. It was not the job they wanted but they were susceptible to the major’s speech. Inspiration is a con, thought Luke. It always has been a con. People who want blood will always encourage each other with talk of life-giving water. ‘The main convoy is set to avoid Route 611,’ Scullion said. ‘For that place be riddled with insurgents. They have been smashing us for months. Many of you enjoyed this routine in Helmand, being locked down, but this operation can’t fail. The logistics boys have established a route through the desert: Route Harriet. There are more than a hundred vehicles in the convoy. Canadian troops have delivered the parts here this morning from Kandahar. The Western Fusiliers have a role in the command group as part of 13 Air Assault Brigade. We will have attack helicopters providing overwatch, and, as well as the Canadians, we have the Dutch rolling with us and Yanks in the distance.’
A lieutenant in 3 Platoon raised his hand during questions. Luke knew him from the base: he was clever, modern, speeding up the ranks, a counter-insurgency nutter from County Louth. Nobody liked him. He took notes. He looked like a future boss. Luke listened to the guy and imagined he’d been designed by computers at the Dundalk Institute of Technology to get right up Scullion’s nose. ‘We wanted to destroy the dam in 2001,’ he said. ‘Now the Taliban wants to destroy it. So this op is real progress, trying to build things not destroy them. It’s like government-in-a-box.’
‘Just man your guns,’ Scullion said, almost sneering at the boy. Luke could see the major’s contradictions coming gently to the boil. ‘We’ve got a hundred miles of bandit coun
try to cross out there. And the area to the south of the dam, the area called Kajaki Sofla, is crawling. We’re going to have a fight down there soldier, so keep your powder dry.’
‘But building partnerships,’ the soldier said. ‘The aim is to secure and serve the population. Understanding local circumstances. In the long run – just like we did in Iraq – we want to stop Afghanistan from being a sanctuary for transnational extremists. Right?’
‘We’ll see. If we can make it past their IEDs we can start to talk about partnership.’
Luke stood up. ‘Logistics?’ he said.
‘We’ll be dispersed along the convoy,’ said Scullion. ‘And part of 3 Platoon will go on Highway 633 to join a decoy convoy to throw them off. Our group, Captain Campbell, will be part of the main formation over the mountains to the dam. Your big job is mentoring. Show our ANA colleagues how it’s done. I want you at the front and I want you all eyes. We want safe passage to the dam for delivery tomorrow p.m.’
The soldiers filed out and Luke came to the front and was joined there by Rashid. ‘We need more, sir,’ said Luke. ‘We’re setting out. That’s clear. But what are the details? Who’s doing what?’ Scullion lowered his voice and he picked the book off the table and smiled at the emptying hall.
‘Zero pyrotechnics,’ Scullion said. ‘We’re rolling along and protecting the delivery of the turbine. Cool? No fucking drama, Campbell, and no fucking gang-bang and no big deal. Just roll along the road and keep your boys in or alongside the vehicles ready to shoot any fucken Terry daft enough to run at the iron horse as it passes by. Got that?’
‘Should there be any separation of duties?’
‘The decisions are coming from above on this, Luke. Let’s just get through the mountains. It’s a taxi run. There’s beer on the other side. Just stick to your group and keep the signaller listening.’
At that, the keen young lieutenant from Louth came back into the hall to shake the major’s hand. Scullion had languages, but he didn’t have this soldier’s way of talking.
‘You boys are the decoy,’ is all he said.
‘We can spread the word as we pass through the villages,’ the lieutenant said with enthusiasm. ‘We’ve got terps. We can say that this is all for the good of the community.’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ Scullion said. ‘Just roll up the fucking road like a good boy. Your job is not to dish out philosophy, okay? It’s to look like you’re delivering a fierce bit of kit to a dam.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s electricity. It’s power. And I don’t give a fuck for the rest of that shit you’re spouting.’
‘Really?’
Luke stepped back to let Scullion lose his temper. He knew it was about more than the boy.
‘Yes, fucking really. Ask Rashid here. Let the American generals say what they like, Lieutenant. The people in these villages would sooner we were delivering fucking Mars bars. And even more than that: they’d sooner we’d let them deliver our no-use fucking arses to Allah. They have no great sympathy for our sympathy, and, believe me, Lieutenant, they would sooner strap a bomb to their firstborn child and throw him at you as thank you for your efforts in bringing them democracy.’
‘This is true, sir,’ said Rashid. ‘The people here do not know this American democracy you talk about.’
‘We’re doing a good thing,’ the lieutenant said.
‘How do you stick him?’ shouted Scullion, looking at the boys standing by the door of the hall. The major smirked and returned his gaze to the young man in front of him. ‘It’s all good. We’re the excellent fucken citizen that helps the poor old lady across the road. No more, no less. So just keep your men in the convoy and they’ll be back in Shadows Nightclub drinking pints of piss-water in the time it takes you to spell counter-insurgency, sure they will. You with me, Nosey?’
‘This is truth the major speaks,’ Rashid said. ‘Oqab Tsuka, which means Operation Eagle’s Summit, the beginning of the new Kajaki. The people will have justice.’
‘No, Rashid,’ Scullion said. ‘They’ll have electricity. That’s all.’ The ANA captain turned and Luke saw him muttering something as he wiped the board.
THE CROSSING POINT
The convoy had travelled a few miles north when Luke looked down and told the boys to cut the chat. The engine was quiet; other vehicles rumbled and heaved to a stop. A bird screamed up in the trees that stood along the banks of a canal.
The signals guy was called Bosh-Bosh. He had waved three fingers at the captain and now they were at a stop. But Luke knew: he’d been watching from up top and saw the guys at the crossing point hurriedly changing into their police uniforms when they spotted the first vehicles. Luke jumped down and signalled for Sean in the WMIK behind to come out. Then he shouted back to his own Vector for one of the boys. ‘Dooley, come down here. These guys are dodgy. Sling us my helmet.’
‘Right, sir.’
‘Where’s the terp?’
‘With the Leper,’ Dooley said. The captain pulled on his helmet and tapped his radio mouthpiece. ‘And Sean-Sean,’ he said. ‘Bring the terp down here. Walking up to the checkpoint. Over.’
Soon they were all there and Dooley and the captain had their rifles up as they walked forward. ‘Shouldn’t we check the ground?’ Sean asked. They called him the Leper, the Leprechaun, or Sean-Sean. He was the sergeant and he got respect from the boys without trying. To Scullion, Sergeant Docherty was too private and too calm: by that stage of the game the major needed friends who raised the volume and showed their weaknesses, and Docherty was the quiet man of the platoon.
‘Let’s go forward, man,’ said Dooley. ‘These fuckers are crooks but they’re not daft enough to mine their own doorstep.’ The heat went with them, every step of the way. It was baking out there, and a soft, choking dust lay over the chunked-up road. Steam was rising from some of the vehicles and heads appeared down the line, curious for news.
The Afghan National Police guys at the crossing looked suspicious, but to Luke they always looked that way. Dooley was at his side chattering in his big Cork accent about the mess of the checkpoint and the fact that nobody was ready for what was coming. He couldn’t believe the state of them with their blue uniforms half-on and filthy. ‘Fucken idiots,’ he said. ‘Did no one tell you there was a kilometre-long fucken convoy driving through here? Eh? What are ye, a bunch of red-arsed motherfuckers? Totally disorganisational. Waiting for Saint Patrick’s Day or what?’
Luke motioned with his rifle for the policemen in the booth to move aside. One of the policemen had a boot on one foot and a sandal on the other. The guy’s lip was scarred. ‘Fucken shape of him,’ Luke said to Dooley, ‘one flip-flop and one ammo boot.’
‘Cocknosh,’ Dooley said.
Dooley then began shouting at the men as if only increased volume would help them understand. ‘What the fuck are you doing changing into civvies?’ They were babbling and the interpreter was translating at speed but Luke put up a hand and turned back to Dooley.
‘Of course, they didn’t know we were coming,’ he said. ‘Nobody would tell them. Why would anybody tell them anything?’ A plastic basin of stew and dates was on the desk, a heap of okra. Next to that a slab of uncooked meat and two old Russian pistols. Under the desk there was a red-striped cement bag of dried marijuana.
One of the policemen waved his hands and pointed to the basin and said, ‘Karoot Maust.’
‘He offers you food,’ the interpreter said.
‘Nobody would tell them anything,’ repeated Luke.
‘Nobody?’ Dooley said. ‘But they’re ANP.’
‘Afghan Non-Players,’ muttered Luke. ‘These stoners are Tippex Commandos for the fucken Taliban.’ He tapped his radio again and made contact with Major Scullion, who was with Rashid and the ANA kandak further down the line. They sent an ANA sergeant to the checkpoint who immediately began slapping the two guys.
‘We are shamed,’ he said.
‘Forget it,’ Luke said. ‘Just ge
t them out the fucken way.’ He had gone through the drawers and thrown several rolls of money up on the desk. ‘They are bandits. And worse, I imagine. We saw them changing into uniform as the vehicles approached.’
‘We’re from the 1st Royal Western,’ Dooley said, ‘and we’ll bang your fucken brains out.’ He then walked backwards with the cement bag swinging in his free hand. He threw the bag into the captain’s vehicle. Private Lennox looked out with a huge grin on his face. ‘See what just fell from the choccy tree,’ he shouted down to Dooley.
THE WATCHES
It was slow all the way but eventually they were in the desert. The mountains in the distance were blue, and when the sun began to drop, pink clouds shrouded the tops of the trees. There must be places even here, Flannigan thought, where life isn’t just a horror show. Private Lennox was still going on about the checkpoint and why the whole country was a mess. ‘It’s all just thieving bastards so it is and them that’s not thieving bastards are trying to bomb the fuck out of you.’
‘Well, you should feel right at home,’ Flannigan said. ‘You love a bit of thieving, you and the rest of the fucken tinks you grew up with in the Emerald Toilet.’
‘Don’t speak bad against the Irish,’ Dooley said.
‘Aye. You joined the regiment, mate,’ Lennox said. ‘And why’s that? ’Cause yer daddy once got his wee arse spanked in Portadown?’
‘No, you plank. Because I quite fancied spending my afternoons in foreign places beating up on no-hopers like you, Lennox.’
‘That’s violence, that,’ Lennox said.
Pampas grass. Sweet tea and sandbags. Brown-eyed children smiling by the road. It all seemed so real to Luke. The carnations on tall stalks were straining past the sun and an old lady came up to a stationary WMIK with a helmet full of figs. She tapped the wheel of the vehicle and he saw the helmet was stamped Twentynine Palms, CA. She was selling the figs and her smile seemed more like a knot. The convoy moved on and crept slowly into the mountains towards Ghorak – helicopters over the peaks – and before it got dark the vehicles halted on a plateau. ‘Come on you chozzies,’ Dooley said. ‘Grab your shit. We’re stopping.’
The Illuminations Page 5