Fortress (2 page)

‘I’ve decided. Don’t try to talk me out of it.’

‘There’s a new USAF one. They’ve got a whole rig of great kit in there, chest press, pec fly, gyroscopic dumbbells. An hour of those and you’ll sleep like a baby. With a nice clear head when you wake up.’

‘My head is clear.’

‘Sure, sure, I know. Their AC runs off its own genny. You’ll look cool and
be
cool. Now split.’

‘You sound like an ad for deodorant.’

‘I’ll catch you up, okay?’

Dave reared up and was on his way out of the door.

‘Where’s your weapon?’

He patted his holster.

‘I’m going to the gym, man – not patrol. Hey …’

Tom paused, his fingers on the keyboard.

Dave grinned. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, you know that?’

The door swung shut and he was alone.

Tom glared at the laptop, not relishing the upcoming communication. Skype seemed to be the worst of both worlds. He used to like to write letters. At prep school, every Sunday after chapel, they’d been made to. He’d listed the week’s academic achievements – that bit didn’t take long – then his various triumphs on the field.
Dear Mum, I got two trys in rugby and got sent to the Head for fiyting Robbo only it was just play. Nothing broken so you don’t need to tell Dad. The ginger cake is all gone. Please send a bigger one this time if poss. Love from Tom
. He’d carried on after he’d enlisted, deaf to the hoots of derision from his mates. But it was easier than phoning – no grief coming back at him.

He clicked on BBC News again, scrolled through pictures of a street of shops in flames, a mounted policeman, face bloodied, helmet gone. Even the ANA had heard about it, the interpreter raising an eyebrow at him at breakfast, as if to say,
Welcome to our world
.

Delphine would have something to say about all this.

He stared at his reflection in the window. A hundred metres away, he saw a small glow of light. It flickered once, then twice more – a lighter, perhaps. Maybe a cigarette would help. After a long abstinence he’d lapsed, then promised Delphine he’d stop. That had lasted about three days. A pair of Ospreys thundered overhead, landing lights off to deter enemy fire, yet plain to see from all the light thrown up by the base. It was huge: as big as Reading, its air traffic busier than Gatwick’s. Brits, Americans, Danes and the fledgling Afghan National Army were all here. The ANA were in charge now, the end in sight for the Coalition, though it didn’t feel much like it.

The aircon stuttered to a stop and, in a matter of moments, the room heated up to an uncomfortable level. Great. Fucking perfect.

The laptop came to life. Delphine was there.

‘Hey, babe.’ Seeing her lifted his spirits instantly.

‘
Bonsoir, mon chéri
.’

She blew him a kiss. He blew one back. Why did this make him think of prison visits?

‘You’ve caught the sun again.’

‘Hard not to – it’s up to forty-five.’

Neither of them had got the hang of this.

‘How’s your day going?’

‘Oh, you know. Same old.’

Her colloquial English was coming on. But it was clear something was wrong. She looked tired and drawn and, although she’d probably touched her face up for the chat, he could see her eyes were red from crying.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Tom, it’s not good here. I don’t like it, what’s happening – all this trouble, I don’t feel safe.’

‘It’s just people letting off steam, taking advantage.’ Instantly he felt the shallow gloss of his words. ‘There’ll be nothing like that where you are, trust me.’

Her shoulders rose and she let out a dismissive sigh. ‘You say that, but people right here in the bar, they’re saying terrible things about what should happen to the protesters. It’s all so ugly.’

Delphine was right. It
was
ugly, but the chances of her coming to any harm at the Green Dragon in Hereford were less than zero. The lads back at the Lines would see to that. He’d told a couple of them to look out for her.

‘Trust me, it’ll all die down. Stuff like this happens all over – this could be Paris or Lyon or Marseille.’ Now he could hear the impatience in his tone. Civil strife, ethnic tensions, tribal conflicts, you name it, he’d seen it – in Benghazi, Beirut, Kinshasa, Kirkuk.
In Western Europe we don’t know we’re born
, he felt like saying, but that was the last thing she needed to hear.

‘Why do they keep extending you? Tell them you want to come home.’

Now it was hitting them what different worlds they occupied, what it meant to be an army fiancée – let alone a wife, if they ever got that far. Had he misled her? She knew some of the wives back in Hereford and must have heard the gripes. This was his first long job away since they had got together. It had all happened so fast: just forty-eight hours’ notice. This was how it was going to be: she had to realize that.

‘It doesn’t work like that, babe. They give the orders. I do what I’m told.’

Her face disappeared from the screen for a moment. When it reappeared she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘I keep thinking how different it could have been.’

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. First there had been the Eurostar incident. She had been so brave, standing up to the hijackers, helping him defeat them. His respect for her then was total. But it had taken its toll on her – with flashbacks, nightmares and an understandable fear of tunnels. And then losing the baby,
their
baby. Their different responses to grief had opened a void between them. He knew all about loss. He could have written a book about it. But none of it was working for her.

‘Look, we’ve got the whole of our lives ahead of us. We can try again.’

It sounded weak and clichéd, but what else could he say? How could he comfort her, reassure her from a desert fortress more than three thousand miles away? The pregnancy had been a complete accident, parenthood something he hadn’t even considered. But he’d supported her all the way, even fancied himself as potential good dad material – when he was around. But it wasn’t to be.

He had dealt with more than his fair share of death: seen mates killed, shredded, vaporized, smashed to pieces so small there was nothing to bury. But watching your own child die as it was being born, and its distraught mother turn her face away from you in grief? There was no training for that.

‘Look …’ he began. The screen flickered, but he soldiered on. ‘Why don’t you go home for a bit, get away from all this? Find some …’ He’d been going to say ‘perspective’ but that would have sounded as if he thought she was being irrational. ‘Get some decent rest. Clean French air. Your mum’s cooking.
Cassoulet
and
tarte Tatin
. Mmm,
fantastique
.’

This time she couldn’t help smiling. He had only stayed with them once and had overeaten spectacularly. Her father’s expression had implied concern that a man with so little self-control should be allowed anywhere near live ammunition.

‘The pub can arrange cover, I’m sure, and—’

‘They have. Moira has found someone.’

‘So it’s already sorted?’ He tried to keep the dismay out of his voice. ‘Good! That’s – good. You need to get away.’

Then the line was gone. Her sad, perfect face was sliced and diced into pixels, then discrete blocks of colour that froze and slid away, like a surreal, digitized version of Jenga.

‘Fuck it.’

He grabbed his pistol and followed Dave out into the baking night.

3

Perimeter of Camp Bastion

They flattened themselves against the dirt, head to toe like a line of ants, moving forward in the darkness, out of the mud-walled village towards the poppy field. There were twelve and the Leader, levering themselves forward on their elbows, four of them not yet out of their teens. Isamuddin’s face was still completely smooth, without even the beginnings of a moustache. All were full of hope for the better life awaiting them.

Every day for two months they had trained under cover, behind walls and under improvised awnings, building their strength, assembling the devices, memorizing the layout of the infidel base, the size of a city, from a map scratched onto the wall of the room that had been their living quarters. As he pulled himself forward, Isamuddin risked a glance behind him at his brother. But Aynaddin wasn’t looking. His eyes were tight shut, tiny points of light betraying the presence of his tears. Only his lips moved in silent recitation. Isa tried to send him a thought message:
Do not worry, little brother. You and I will soon be in glory
. But all Ayna heard was the verses he repeated over and over to jam all his other thoughts – of doubt and paralysing fear.

Isa looked up into the starless night, a vast cavern that guarded their ultimate destination. His heart thumped at the thought of what awaited them after they had done their duty. The poppy was their last cover. Once through that they would be out in the open, with only half a kilometre of dirt before the perimeter. The orange glow of the floodlights was already visible beyond the foliage. He heard a sharp hiss a few feet ahead from the Leader, invisible in the darkness, who seemed to have eyes that glowed in the dark. Isa dropped his head so his nose scraped the dirt as he had been told, and kept on moving towards the poppy, where they would switch to a crouching run, guarded by the tall stalks, quickening their pace towards the target.

The base had been there barely four years. It had taken shape with astounding speed, an instant fortress city of concrete, metal and wire on a previously barren plain. So many thousands lived behind its walls that the sewage run-off had given life to the desert, and fields of poppy had sprung up. Before, the invaders had destroyed the crop, eradicating the extra source of income. But all that had done was antagonize the population.

They look strong with all their machines and missiles but, as you will see, they are weak
, the Leader had explained.
They have grown too sure of themselves, and because of that they are lazy. And on their useless diet of junk they have become fat and slow, while we have speed and patience, which is why we will prevail
. The Leader had many such explanations for why victory was assured. The last reason, he had said, was
They do not give their lives as you have chosen to. For this reason we will prevail.

Isa didn’t remember choosing. He remembered the Leader appearing one night on a grey mare and telling his father that the boys of the village had been chosen to serve the Almighty, and that he should celebrate his good fortune. When his father had stood there, dumbstruck, the Leader had swung the AK47 into his face and knocked him to the ground. Before he could rise, the Leader had pushed the barrel of the gun into his mouth. Only Mother’s dramatic display of gratitude had stopped him pulling the trigger.

Inches in front of his face Isa could just make out the heels of Khanay, his cousin, the hard calloused shells of skin built up over years of going barefoot, the loose legs of the oversized Afghan National Army uniform flapping around his ankles. And on his back, the dark mound of his pack stuffed with the devices they had prepared. Khanay had got the message.
This is the greatest day of our lives!
he had exclaimed, his eyes wild.
Until this night we have been peasants of no value. Tomorrow we shall be princes, honoured by our family forever
.

The stolen uniforms were strange. Isa had never worn new clothes before. The stiff fabric between his legs chafed. They had forgone the boots, which had felt like metal cases round their feet, once they knew that the ANA themselves often went without, preferring sandals or bare feet. Four hours earlier they had stood in front of a video camera while the Leader recited his speech to the world in English.
I give this message to the infidel crusaders … We will burn you and your weapons …

Only Ayna understood. He was the educated one. He could read and count. They all marvelled at his capacity to remember things – the names of every village ancestor going back eight generations, and his unrivalled mastery of the Koran. He had even learned some English. He knew the names of all the invaders’ aeroplanes: Osprey, the half-plane, half-helicopter, Huey, with two rotors, Apache and the AV-8 jump jets that it was said could even fly backwards. There was so much in his head – and so much more he could know. Isa thought perhaps that was what made him cry: he didn’t know if he could take his earthly knowledge with him to Heaven.

They brushed past the first poppy stalks but stayed flat to the earth. Before they had left the room, they had taken a last look at the map, the route across the huge base to their destination – the aircraft hangars. Was it yards or miles? They had no idea of the scale. Only today had the Leader let them into his secret.
Don’t worry, my brothers, friends will be waiting. You will be transported.

A miracle? Isa asked.

And the Leader laughed.
In a way, yes
.

They lifted themselves to take their first look. Stretching from one horizon to the other, the perimeter fence looked like the border to another land. Above them in the starless sky a pair of jets thundered past, their black cut-out shapes almost invisible in the darkness, except for the twin circles of fire, low enough to shake the ground beneath their feet. In the brief orange glow of the engines Isa again saw the glint of tears on Ayna’s face. He reached out and gave his arm a squeeze – but then the Leader spoke.

‘Here we wait for the signal.’

4

They were in the open now, moving swiftly in the dark, their packs heavy with weapons and ammunition bouncing on their backs, pounding the rough dirt underfoot. They ran heads down towards the towering walls, giant mesh barriers filled with sand and topped with razor wire. Up ahead the Leader looked round every few seconds, as if any of them would dare to turn back. Isa glanced at Ayna and saw that his previously tearful face had hardened into a mask of concentration, as if he had finally found something to focus on, perhaps knowing that there was no alternative fate, nothing to do but resign himself to what was ahead.