Street Soldier (17 page)

Sean nodded dumbly and stumbled away while they loaded his friend into the meat wagon.

Later he sat down away from the destruction, hugging his knees, his back against the high fence that surrounded the barracks, utterly exhausted. His clothes were covered in blood. His nostrils were thick with the reek of what had happened. The smell seemed to have crept down his nose and into his skull. He wondered if he would ever get rid of it.

Slowly, deliberately, Sean clenched his right hand into a fist and pushed it into the ground, twisting as it went, keeping it going even when the pain set in. The healed skin split open and his body asked him what the fuck he thought he was doing to it. It
hurt
.

Good. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to keep his mind fresh. Back in his old life he had seen lads just seize up like rabbits when it all got too much, when shit started going wrong, and next thing the cops had them. He wasn’t going to do that. He had a vague sense that something had just changed, big time, in his life. Fine. He would rise to meet it.

And so he made himself study the scene in front of
him, committing it to memory. His first time on the receiving end of enemy action.

The bombed area had been taped off. Figures in pristine white suits moved amongst the wreckage, like aliens from another world. The scene was smeared with blood and oil and foam. The bodies were all gone, but nothing else could be touched. It was a job for the civilian police now.

The bastards.
The bastards!
So this was what it felt like to have a war on your own turf, in your own country.
The bastards!

Sean kept a lid on his anger, holding it down with both hands. He was used to being mightily pissed off, but this was different to anything that had ever happened to him. This wasn’t like someone treading on the Guyz’ turf. It wasn’t like that Pricky screwing over his mum, or him getting nicked. This went deep and personal. Friends had been killed. It was a new type of anger and he needed to come to terms with it. If he let it all out in one blast, then it would consume him.

Heaton wandered over, dropped down next to him. ‘You OK?’

‘Oh, yeah. I’m absolutely fine and fucking dandy, mate. Thanks for asking.’

They sat silently. Heaton pulled out a pack of cigarettes
and offered one to Sean. Sean declined with an angry shake of the head, so he lit up on his own.

Sean broke the silence at last. He felt his voice shake. ‘Who would put a bomb in a soldier’s car?’

‘It’s a long list,’ Heaton said. ‘They keep sending us to places we’re not meant to be . . . Guess what? We make enemies.’

Sean shook his head. ‘I didn’t sign up for this,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right.’

‘Oh Christ, here we go,’ Heaton breathed. ‘
I didn’t sign up for this. Poor Sean
.’ Sean stared hatred at him. Heaton stared back, his lip curled. ‘So what
did
you sign up for, Harker? Being served cups of tea by grateful old ladies? Playing with guns as a dick substitute? Or was it just your get-out-of-jail-free card?’ He prodded Sean in the chest with a finger, while Sean mentally weighed up the pros and cons of decking an NCO. ‘You sign up, you’re prepared to
fight
. You put that uniform on, you turn up for duty, it sends a statement:
I am ready to go to war
.’

He got up again. ‘I’m gonna catch a shower. See you around, Harker.’

The anger was still there when Heaton had gone. For a long time Sean simply sat there and let it swirl around inside his head. He didn’t trust himself to move until he had dealt with it. Because, right now, for the first time in his life, Sean felt like killing someone.

Chapter 18

The briefing room had been quiet. Even after nearly a week, no one was in the mood for chat or joshing. The platoon silently came to attention as Franklin and a uniformed woman Sean hadn’t seen before entered. Adams followed behind and shut the door, then took up position there.

The woman was an attractive blonde, probably in her thirties. The three pips on her front said she was a captain, and Sean took a moment to run the tactical recognition flash on her arm through his memory. A square with its two halves divided into dark blue and yellow. That was . . . Arse, he knew this. Dark blue and yellow was . . .

‘At ease. Sit down,’ Franklin instructed curtly. The platoon plonked their arses on the faded brown plastic chairs, which reminded Sean of the thing he’d sat on in the custody van on his way to prison, except perhaps even more uncomfortable. One of the most technologically
advanced armies in the world could never quite find the time to bring its buildings into the twenty-first century.

Dark blue and yellow was . . .

‘This is Captain Fitzallen of the Royal Logistics Corps.’

Logistics Corps. Yeah, I totally knew that.

‘Captain Fitzallen specializes in explosive ordnance disposal. Captain.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant.’ An attractive woman and a bomb expert – she had the undivided attention of every man in the room.

A laptop and computer projector had been set up at the front of the room, looking almost futuristic compared to the massive cork boards covered with A4-sized notices that lined the walls. She touched a key and the laptop whirred into life, displaying the gold badge of the Corps.

‘First, the forensics report, which will be made public this afternoon. As her mates, you deserve to know first: we can confirm that the bomb which killed Private Clark and four other soldiers was a fertilizer-based explosive planted under the driver’s seat of her car.’

The picture changed to the charred wreck of the Cosworth. It was an image that would be burned into Sean’s mind for ever. He glared his hate at it, wishing that somehow, telepathically, it would link to the bastard
who had planted the bomb and do something useful like fry their brains.

‘The sad fact is that this bomb could probably have been detected if Private Clark had thought to look for it. And with that in mind, it’s been decided that all units are to receive a refresher course in bomb awareness. So, here goes . . .’

She took the platoon through the details with brisk efficiency, illustrating it with images of actual bomb parts as she went.

‘Any bomb needs a detonator, and explosives . . .’

Sean sat back and rested the side of his head on his fist as she talked. Some of it he could already have told her, some was new.

‘. . . The Omagh bombing of 1998 used about two hundred kilograms of explosive and killed thirty people. Deaths were mostly caused by the supersonic shockwave of the blast, and the distribution of shrapnel. But think about two hundred kilos of explosive . . . That’s two hundred bags of sugar. The Omagh bomb was planted in a stolen car, but for a bomb to be planted in
your
car – well, you’d notice something that big, wouldn’t you? So it’s much more likely to be a few kilograms – but still something that should be visible if you take the time to look. Now, what haven’t I mentioned?’

There was a pause until someone put a hand up.

‘The trigger.’

‘Exactly. What sets the bomb off in the first place? A pressure device hidden in your car; a timer device; a radio-controlled detonator.’ More images were shown on the projector. ‘The bottom line is,
someone got into your vehicle
. There will be signs, if you only take the time to notice. Which brings us on to security – how to leave your car to reduce the chances of someone breaking in, and how to check it before you get in. These habits should be routine for as long as the threat level is
SEVERE
, as it currently is . . .’

The talk went on. Sean mostly paid little attention. He didn’t have a car, after all. He could spend the time wondering how Clark’s bomb had been planted in the first place, and how it had been set off. Was it coincidence or deliberate that it had been outside the gatehouse as a convoy was coming through? If it was deliberate, then that would have been difficult to fine-tune with a timer, so had it been a remote detonation?

But someone would have thought of this. The security people would have gone through the CCTV images with a fine-tooth comb, looking for anyone hanging around with line of sight of the gatehouse. There was no talk of any leads so it couldn’t have been anyone obvious.

Clark’s death had brought home something Sean had always known but never really appreciated. Terrorists
wouldn’t be out of the ordinary. They would look so normal that they were basically invisible. They could be the person right next to you.

Shit.

The talk was over. The platoon came to attention again and Fitzallen left the room.

Franklin stood at the front and surveyed them. ‘Corporal Heaton’s section – you all have extra duties to perform. You’re dismissed to go and get ready. I’ll see you this afternoon. Do her proud, lads.’

And so it was that four hours later, Sean was in his No. 2 Service Dress, the smartest gear he owned – khaki tunic and trousers, with creases ironed to razor sharpness; shirt and tie, precisely knotted; white belt, with buckle badge gleaming – stony-faced, solemnly helping bear Clark’s coffin into St Michael’s Garrison Church. They formed pairs in order of height to carry the coffin: Marshall and Penfold, Mitra and West, Bright and Sean, with Heaton walking behind. The coffin was covered with the Union Jack, with a wreath and Clark’s beret resting on top.

TV news crews milled about outside, on the far side of the road, anxious to catch the first of the Tidworth bomb’s five funerals. Inside, the church was full of similar uniforms, the only exception being Clark’s family, just as smartly turned out in dark civvy suits and dresses: a
mature West Indian couple, dignified in their grief, and a gaggle of brothers and sisters, some with kids of their own.

From a soldier’s point of view it was all too formal for tears – though Sean could feel them pricking at the backs of his eyes – and the extra responsibility of being a coffin bearer meant that he stayed dry-eyed. It was the first funeral he had been to – he hadn’t been allowed to go to Gaz’s – and he would have been determined to do it properly even without the added duty. He and the lads were synchronized to the nearest millimetre, to the nearest split second. It was their final tribute to a fallen comrade, giving her the respect she deserved.

The service passed in a blur. The company major delivered a tribute to Clark, which sounded good to anyone who didn’t realize that he had barely known her. The padre made a better job of it, in Sean’s opinion. He pointed out that St Michael’s Church was named for the warrior archangel, the leader of the armies of heaven that would defeat the forces of evil. Still all bollocks, as far as Sean could tell, but he liked the idea. If you had to die, then you might as well be on St Michael’s side when you did it. Fighting evil, whatever form it took.

The pallbearers sat in the choir stalls, sideways on to everyone else, ready to take the coffin out again. It gave Sean a good view of Clark’s family, nodding quietly
during the eulogies, singing the hymns with gusto. Sometimes the mother dabbed her eyes with a hanky; apart from that, her restraint and the way she held herself somehow communicated a far deeper loss than if she had been howling or wailing.

We let you down
, Sean thought, looking at Mrs Clark. She chose that precise moment to glance up, and their eyes met. He quickly looked away again, but then stole another sideways glance. Her face was kind, and Sean thought he saw her give him a brief nod before turning her attention back to the padre.

And what the fuck had that meant?
Yes, I know
? Or,
I forgive you
? Or,
Wasn’t your fault
?

Sean knew what he would be saying in her place, and it wasn’t any of those. If he was a civvy who had just lost a loved one, he would want to scream:
If you lot can’t protect yourselves, how can you protect us?

And then they were outside again, ranks of soldiers standing at attention while the coffin was loaded into a hearse. They saluted as the hearse moved off and a small fleet of black limos carried the Clark family after it for the private cremation.

‘Fall out!’

And the funeral was over.

‘Well, fuck me,’ said a familiar voice. ‘I could very easily never have to do that again.’

Milling around outside the church with the other soldiers, Sean found he was standing next to Heaton. The events of the last few days had drained him of emotion and he just felt tired. They had also made him re-evaluate the reason why they had fallen out. The thoughts he had been having in the church hadn’t helped.

Heaton offered him an open cigarette packet, then began to pull it away. ‘No – you don’t, do you . . . ?’

‘Cheers,’ Sean said, and took one before they were gone.

Heaton’s eyebrows went up. ‘Filthy habit, Harker.’ He flicked the lighter on and held it out. ‘Could get you killed.’

‘Ha. Funny.’ Sean drew in a breath. No, it wasn’t really his thing, but he wanted an excuse to keep talking. ‘Mind if I have a word?’

The eyebrows went up again, but Heaton nodded his head slightly down the road. They started to walk.

‘Clark should have checked her car more,’ Sean began. ‘I know that. Doesn’t mean that what happened was her fault.’

‘Never said it was, mate.’

‘We’re the best fucking army in the world. Maybe not the biggest, but the best. And we couldn’t stop one of our own mates being blown up. So how the fuck are we supposed to protect anyone else?’

He waved a hand in the general direction of the perimeter fence. ‘They’re defenceless, out there. We’ve got all the guns in here, but . . . the army can’t be everywhere. It isn’t allowed to be. And we’ve got Rules of Engagement. So in all those places where we can’t be, people have to be able to look out for themselves. Stands to reason.’

Heaton looked at him strangely. ‘That is the weirdest echo I ever heard. Could have sworn I said all that back in the pub. The time you – uh, let’s say – resigned.’

‘Yeah. Well. About that . . .’

Heaton looked up at him coolly, one eyebrow raised.