by Leigh Barker
And now here he was at the town hall, getting a Well Done badge. Okay, it was all a BS publicity gimmick in support of the chief’s political aspirations, but it got him off the street, and there was a bar that drew him in like a magnet.
Two uniforms were also part of the Cops-Doing-Good parade, and they looked up nervously at the thud-thud of the deputy chief tapping the microphone. The thud and the following feedback screech woke up the half-dozen hacks lounging around the bar, and they strolled over to the wooden seats, fishing out their recorders or notepads, as they were supposed to.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” That was a laugh. “It gives me great pleasure to present these fine officers with the Bravery Award for their… err… bravery.”
Poetry. Was that a tear? Shaun shook his head, downed his whiskey, and strolled over to the podium to watch the uniforms squirm. An overweight copper and a WPC, a woman woodentop — he recalled the gender awareness course he’d been made to attend after a few misunderstood comments along those lines, and woman police constable was on the list, as indeed was woodentop. It was stressed that the lovely little things should be called female police officers. Okay then. He checked this one out. Yeah, cute, filled out her uniform in the right places and had a nice little hat.
The deputy chief was still wittering on about how proud he was that these officers had nearly got themselves killed doing stupid things. It seems the overweight copper had seen a guy with a gun at a street party, shoulder-charged him into a fountain, and knocked over a hot-potato stand. He’d taken that action, apparently, to prevent panic. Well, that worked out just fine.
The cute PC had dived into the Thames when she saw a woman jump off a bridge and held the woman’s head above water for twenty minutes. He shook his head. She must be nuts, it had been in February, and hadn’t the stupid woman jumped in on her own? Yeah? Then she should bloody well get out on her own. God, that water must have been cold. Good job she was a woman woodentop or—
“Sergeant Shaun O’Conner!”
Applause. Bugger, it was his turn to be paraded. He sighed and climbed up the three steps to the podium as the applause spluttered away, but you don’t get much from a few hacks, the barman and a couple of shanghaied passers-by.
He smiled at the cute PC, and she smiled back. Now that was a bit confusing. Did she smile back because she liked him or because she was just glad he was in the barrel now instead of her? Face it, man, it’s box number two.
He shook the deputy chief’s hand, took the award, smiled, leaned into the mike, said, “Ta”, and legged it back to the bar.
“Bit early for that, isn’t it?” the cute PC said, coming up behind him as he downed another Irish whiskey.
“You know what they say?” Which of course she didn’t. “It’s never too early for a Jameson’s.”
“That right?”
“Dunno.” He smiled and looked at her body. “Just made it up.”
She looked him up and down in retaliation. “Okay, I’ll have the same.”
He nodded at the barman, pointed at his glass and the … female police officer. “I didn’t catch your name.”
She raised her eyebrows and glanced back at the podium and the deputy chief commissioner politicking for all he was worth. “Police Constable Cooper. I think the deputy chief might have mentioned it.”
Shaun shrugged, he’d been checking out her ass so missed all that stuff. “I was thinking about my speech.”
She nodded. “Yes, I could see you’d worked on that.”
The barman put the two drinks on the bar, and Shaun handed one to her. “You got a shorter name than Police Constable Cooper?”
“Yes.” She sipped the whiskey.
“And?” He downed half his drink.
“Kaitlin.”
Cute name too. “Okay, but I’ll call you Kate,” he said and put out his hand.
She shook his hand once. “No, you won’t.”
“Fair enough.” He flashed his Irish smile. “Was it cold?”
She glanced questioningly at the drink, then got it. “Of course it was cold, bloody cold.” She shrugged. “Had to be done, though.”
“Why?” He caught her frown. “Why did jumping into the Thames on a freezing night have to be done?”
She seemed genuinely puzzled. “The woman would have drowned.
Shaun shrugged. “Her choice.”
Kaitlin put her drink down, looked him in the eyes, and shook her head slowly.
Nice one, boy, he thought, you’re in there.
She walked back to her hero colleague without a second glance.
Yeah, you’re in there all right.
“Thought I’d find you here.”
Shaun turned at the sound of the familiar voice. “Danny.” He smiled. “Get you something?”
Danny looked immaculate, as always, and his usual smile was doing a poor job of hiding in the shadows as he looked at the glasses on the bar. “No, thanks, looks like you’ve celebrated for us both.” He looked over at the deputy chief trying to block the exit and keep the hacks trapped. “How’d it go, then?”
“Lights, action, camera,” Shaun said. “Brought the house down.”
“Yeah, I bet. Come on, we’ve got work.”
“Hey, hero here.” Shaun patted his chest. “Never have to work again.”
“Yeah, right. Come on, hero.” Danny crossed the function room, smiled politely at the deputy chief, and got the hell out of there.
Shaun started to follow, caught Kaitlin watching him, and winked mischievously. She shook her head sadly, but there was a smile, just a little one. A distant light on a stormy ocean. Yeah, probably marking rocks.
It is a pity, though, he told himself, but look at her man; she’s way out of your league. And she was — way out.
12
Bob the burglar was thinking he could get used to this. He was lying on an oversized bed, naked as a naturist holidaymaker and watching the bathroom door and smiling like the cat with a milk moustache.
“Ready?” he called. Then said to himself, “Because I am.”
“Almost,” Laura said from the bathroom. A moment later she emerged, wearing a judge’s black robe, which billowed open as she moved, revealing flashes of firm, young breasts.
“Yes, Your Honour,” Bob said with a big smile, “I’m guilty.”
From the folds of her robe, Laura produced a riding crop with an extra-wide pink leather spanking keeper, which was guaranteed to provide more slap and less sting. We’ll see. “Then,” she said, tapping her naked leg with the crop, “you must be punished.”
She crossed to the bed, reached under the pillow, and brought out two sets of pink fur handcuffs, which she used to secure Bob’s wrists to the brass headboard. She flicked her robe over her shoulders and placed the flap of riding crop on Bob’s thigh.
“This is going to hurt you more than it hurts me,” she said with a smile.
13
Harry was nine hours into the seven and a half hour flight promised by the airline and was ruing his self-destructive decision to return to Helmand. His leg had started off by simply throbbing steadily, moved up to aching, and then to pounding, and was now working up to the big finale and screaming at him to cut it off. He closed his eyes and tried not to think about it, which anyone who has had any sort of pain knows is just hopeless.
The plane slammed down onto the tarmac, squeezing his leg against the thinly upholstered seat. Great, just when things were looking peachy.
Tom and BJ were waiting for him as he limped between his crutches out of security and into the small arrivals.
“You look like shit,” Tom said, smiling and relieving him of his backpack.
“Cheers,” Harry said, releasing the pack without protest. “Nice to know you care.”
“Who said I care? I just said you look like shit.”
“And you do,” BJ added, as if confirmation was necessary.
“Love you too,” Harry said.
“Shhh,” BJ said, loo
king around. “My boyfriend’s the jealous sort.”
“Camels don’t get jealous,” Harry said.
They set off for the domestic flight booking, although it would be more accurate to say Harry set off for the booking, Tom and BJ having gone the other way without a backward glance.
“Hey!” Harry shouted at the departing pair. “Where are you going? The flights are this way.”
“True,” Tom said without turning. “But the helicopter is this way. You carry on, though, next flight to Kandahar leaves in…” He looked at his watch. “Oh, seven hours and change.” He pointed at the exit sign. “Or if you like, you can go by truck, a nice twelve-hour trip on happy roads with nice people, that’ll sort your leg right out.”
Harry executed the best turn he’d managed since he got the crutches and ran after them — well, swung after them — as quickly as he could.
“Helicopter?” he said, catching them up as they waited for him. “Where did you get a helicopter? You haven’t been promoted to generals while I’ve been away?”
“No bloody chance,” BJ said. “Lucky to still be sergeants, without your calming influence.”
“Do you spell bollocks with an X?” Tom asked.
“Ah, you stole it,” Harry said with a grin. “That’s all right, then.”
“Nah,” Tom said, “nice American gentleman offered us a ride.”
“Yeah, right,” Harry said. “What did you do, kidnap his sister?”
“Nah, she came right along after one look at the ol’ tadger. Said she’d never seen nothing like it,” Tom said, with an exaggerated swagger.
“Yeah, so I hear,” Harry said, starting to feel a little euphoric now the pain had subsided, and he didn’t have to sit in a damned truck for a day.
There were four choppers parked on the concrete pad behind the terminal, but only one had its rotors moving slowly, and as they approached it, Harry planned how he was going to negotiate the Sea King’s step. He hesitated for a moment, but that was all it took. Tom on one side and BJ the other picked him up under his arms and put him into the helo, as if he was hanging from a pole in a cornfield. To hell with dignity.
There were four other passengers on board, two US generals and a couple of majors as aides. Great. They watched the Brits lift the civilian on board with an indifference that showed they’d pretty much seen it all. Harry and his supporters sat opposite and tried not to make eye contact or say anything disrespectful. Heaven forbid they should be disrespectful to officers — when they could be overheard.
The big helicopter lifted off with barely more than a deafening roar and swept out over the desert that looked like a rolling red ocean, not that any of them gave a stuff, having seen the spectacular sight so many times, it was now just sand.
An hour later, they touched down at Camp Bastion and waited politely for the generals and their aides to deplane. Tom and BJ repeated the transportation of a civilian exercise, and they were on the scorching tarmac.
“Home sweet home,” Tom screamed above the howl of jet engines and rotors from every direction.
“Great,” Harry said and headed off across the tarmac.
“Hey!” BJ shouted. “Aren’t you going to check in?”
“Nah,” Harry said, grumpy now and tired, “I’m just going to find a crib and crash.”
BJ and Tom caught up with him, which wasn’t difficult, Harry being on crutches. “Drink first,” Tom said, “then crash.”
The others nodded and headed for Heroes bar. “Maybe a quick viz to Pizza Hut?” BJ suggested, hungry as usual.
“You know they don’t sell booze here?” Tom said, with a quick glance at Harry. Maybe he was jet-lagged or brain-damaged.
Harry shrugged. “Yeah, I know, but I’ve brought enough duty-free vodka in my backpack to drown a Russian.”
“Cool,” Tom said, picking up the pace, but slowing it down again as he left the limping Harry behind.
“You!” a harsh voice said from somewhere behind them. Only MPs talk like that.
“He doesn’t mean me,” Harry said, walking on.
“You, you with the bionic legs!”
Ah.
They stopped and turned round slowly. Life can get tedious.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The MP looked like a regular squaddie, wearing pale desert camouflage combats with rolled-up sleeves and sand-coloured boots, but the scarlet cap and MP flash on his shoulder said what he was — except that his demeanour and voice had already said all there was to say.
“You will report to the duty officer!” the MP shouted, even though he was now only five feet away. Perhaps his volume control was broken.
“Yes, Sarg,” Tom said with a sigh of resignation.
“Do you think my name is Sarg?” the MP shouted.
“No, Sarg… Sergeant,” Tom said, seeing the prospect of the pizza and spiked coke fading into the distance.
“Why are you still standing here making my landing strip untidy?” the MP said, his voice rising in pitch.
They headed off to the right as quickly as Harry’s crutches would allow.
“Where the hell are you going?” the MP screamed.
This bloke was seriously getting on Harry’s tits, and he was about to express his feelings in plain, straightforward speech that avoided ambiguity and repetition, but the MP pointing the other way took the wind out of his sail.
“The Duty Office is that way, you… newly arrived British citizen.”
Harry was truly impressed by how the man could make citizenship sound so shitty.
The MP stood with hands on hips, as per the training manual, and watched them go. Tom looked back, waved, and walked on. He looked again and saw the mouth-on-legs striding away. They executed a perfect right wheel and headed for the bar.
Harry had the best night’s sleep since the day he’d left this place, the constant roar of aircraft and the thwump of rotor blades a soothing symphony to his jet-lagged brain. He woke up at six thirty as usual and got up slowly. He was sitting on the side of his cot in the accommodation tents and looked up as Tom groaned and sat up slowly.
“That coke was off,” Tom said and rubbed his temples.
“Nothing to do with the half bottle of vodka you poured into it, then?” Harry asked, overlooking what had happened to the other half bottle.
“Nah,” Tom said, swinging his legs off the cot, “it was the coke.”
Harry pointed at the unmoving form of BJ curled up under his blanket and sparked out. “We could just bugger off and leave him to talk to that nice MP.”
“Only if you want to get shot in the arse agen,” BJ said in a muffled voice.
“Awake, then?” Tom said, standing up stark naked, stretching out, and displaying his porcelain-white junk — definitely not a spectator sport.
“No,” BJ said.
“Please yourself,” Harry said, “we’re off to get a good fried breakfast with—”
BJ was out of bed and collecting his uniform from the floor where he’d stored it before Harry could even mention the fried bread and coffee.
Harry smiled. Okay, he was home. Now, just a little trip out into bandit country, and back in time for din-dins. No probs.
14
The battered white van rolled silently across the market square and came to a gentle halt, while the driver and front seat passenger scanned the sandstone buildings for any sign of life, but there was nothing, not even the obligatory mangy dog. Even in this godforsaken place, pre-dawn was for sleeping, not skulking about, but the four boys in the van searched the perimeter anyway because as Master Sergeant Ethan Gill would say, frequently, “There are two kinds of marines out here, son, the careful and the dead.” Okay, a bit Hollywood, but you couldn’t fault the logic.
Master Sergeant Gill was exercising the same caution that had kept him alive in more hot zones than a NBC combat reporter on the shit-list. He was getting too old for this crap, and frequently said so, but showed no signs of giving it up. Forty-something —
a lot of something — six two and built like a man who’d spent his life in the marine corps should be built. His hair was longer than it had ever been, and he needed a shave, but nothing says marine like a high and tight, and saying that in this part of the world was like marching down Taliban Street singing the Star Spangled Banner.
This flyblown little village was in Afghanistan’s Paktika Province in the Hindu Kush Mountains, a stone’s throw from Pakistan and one of the most beautiful places on God’s earth, but if Helmand was tough, then Paktika was where the tough travelled in convoy.
Ethan climbed between the seats into the back of the van, leaving Sergeant “Al” Caponetto to watch the square. Two other marines sat in the back, watching two young Afghans secured by cable ties and gagged with grey duct tape.
“They been any trouble?” Ethan asked.
Eddie Elward sniffed and patted one of the Afghans on the head. “No, Top, they’ve been very good. Shall I give them a cookie?”
Ethan closed his eyes and shook his head in despair. “Let’s roll.”
The Afghans began desperately trying to break the unbreakable bonds, so clearly understood what was being said.
“Hey, hey,” Ethan said soothingly, “no need to fret.”
Manuel Alvarez opened a trunk and pulled out a crossover bomb vest on which half a dozen blocks of explosives were fastened with greasy cord.
So, there was reason to fret after all.
The Afghans got the message and writhed and bounced against the side of the van.
Ethan made “shhh” noises and put his finger to his lips, while Alvarez put the vest over the shoulders of the nearest Afghan and snapped the buckle shut on the boy’s chest.
Elward opened the van’s back door and then moved aside to give Alvarez room to throw the boy out onto the square. He hit the hard-packed earth, bounced once, rolled onto his back, and stared up in terror at the Americans.
Caponetto felt the van bounce, looked back, and started it moving slowly across the square and onto the paved road, where he brought it to a gentle halt.
Ethan winked at the remaining Afghan, and as they watched the other boy trying desperately to wriggle out of the bomb vest, he fired a single round from his automatic. That did the trick.