Thunder (34 page)

He turned his attention back to the briefing document. Ellard was already on a plane with the initial instructions for his truant operatives, and Greere wanted to get this finalised before his subordinate landed. Ellard would now be out of the country for at least a day and a half – enough time for him to make a very quick trip over the Channel... He reviewed the final sentences:

“Issue Packages with one times (1) combat-issue ruggedised Encrypted Mobile Terminal and code ‘Hotel-Mike-Zulu-Four-Niner’.”
An EMT was a notepad sized computer, with secure comms capabilities, built into a heavy duty protective casing. Tin and Mercury would need this device, with the code he had provided, and their personal ID keys to access their own specific Mission Instructions and to communicate with him during the mission.
“Be advised: The Packages do not require to know, nor should be advised, of the content of this MI. Expect Packages to request, and then ensure they are issued with, limited UO equipment according to local discretion. Probability of asset repatriation is low. Issue Requisition Reference UKA-9744-353...”
Greere carefully checked the long reference number against the anonymous one he’d selected from the agency’s small batch of pre-allocated numbers. He strongly suspected that this was the last anyone in the West would see of this Urban Operations equipment and weaponry.
“Deliver the packages to Kilo-Alpha-Foxtrot soonest. One way. Local commanders at KAF to be instructed that no further assistance will be required either before, during, or after the mission. Packages are self extracting.”

Greere smiled to himself.

He would get them to Kandahar.

Then they were on their own.

~~~~~

Mytilene, Lesvos

We are sitting at one of the many cafe’s which are scattered along the sea road in front of Mytilene Airport. The airport itself is little more than a single runway, roughly pasted onto the edge of the island. It is just big enough to cope with the relatively small herds of tourists who flow backwards and forwards across its threshold. Across the narrow straights in front of us, we can just make out the sea-mist veiled, green-brown mass of the Turkish mainland.

It’s mid-afternoon, the heat of the day, and I’m feeling quietly pleased that I’ve shaved my hair back down to stubble. Jack has done the same, and I glance across at him. He looks stern and tense. We’re dressed in jeans and androgynous, loose fitting, cotton shirts.

He turns his head and, following his gaze, I spy Deuce making his way along the footpath on the other side of the road. He has a rucksack slung over one shoulder, and seems more interested in ogling the sunbathers scattered along the narrow strip of shingle than in looking for the cafe. With his white hair and sun-starved pale skin he looks like a stick of alabaster amongst the surrounding tans.

“He’d make a good vampire,” I mutter to Jack.

He huffs, “Zombie, more like.”

Whatever species of the walking dead he might be, he glances toward the cafe, then picks his way amongst the traffic to cross over, and makes his way up to our table. We’re to one side. Away from the sparse scattering of other patrons. Deuce pulls out a chair, sits on it wordlessly, and examines us with a questioning scowl plastered over his face.

I’m suddenly nervous that I look different to him.

“Had a nice holiday?” he asks stonily.

I relax slightly. He’s only jealous.

Jack ignores the question. “Do you want anything to drink?” he offers carefully.

“Beer,” Deuce instructs, and Jack gestures toward a hovering waitress who rushes over.

Deuce, somewhat disturbingly, licks at his lips as he scrutinises the waitress. I can’t be sure whether his action is at the thought of her, or the promise of a cold drink.

“You are to be back here at oh-nine-hundred, tomorrow morning,” he says bluntly.

There’s not going to be any chitchat then.

“Wear these uniforms,” he pushes the rucksack over to by my chair. “No weapons. Only pack essentials.” He watches as I eye the rucksack suspiciously. “It’s okay,” he sneers. “
This one
isn’t going to blow up.”

Jack prickles defensively. “We didn’t know the last one would either,” he mutters.

“Bully for you,” Deuce says, contemptuously. “There’s a flight from here to Cyprus,” he continues, rooting into the inside pocket of his unnecessary and obviously over-warm jacket, and then handing over a pair of tickets. “Be on it and then, when you arrive on the island, make your own way across to the British military base. Tin, you’ve been to BFC before – yes?” Jack nods. “Your onward transfer has been arranged from there, and you will be issued with equipment and more detailed orders on arrival.”

“Where are we going?” asks Jack.

“Your favourite place,” says Deuce with another sneer.

Jack grimaces, “Afghanistan?” he asks.

Deuce nods unpleasantly, then glances across, as the attractive young waitress approaches us again with his drink balanced on a small tray. “I think I’ll stay here until my flight back. I’ve got a couple of hours to kill,” he announces. “You two can get moving. You’ve had enough R&R already.”

The waitress puts the drink on the table in front of him with a friendly smile, and I watch as he leers into her unintentionally proffered cleavage, and then after her withdrawing figure.

“Any other instructions?” Jack asks carefully.

Deuce looks at him coldly. “Yes,” he says. “Order me another beer, and then pay the bill before you fuck off.”

~~~~~

Ellard waited until Tin and Mercury had vanished, then downed his beer quickly and carefully made his way back to the airport. His flight back was tomorrow, not today. In the mean time he would use a hire car to complete his local investigations, then have himself a night on the town and, in the morning, check that his recently absent charges actually turned up for their flight.

He waited patiently while an ageing attendant completed the usual bundle of car hire forms. “Are there any good hotels, here in Mytilene?” he asked the man. “Close to the centre? Good for evening entertainment?” Ellard winked conspiratorially.

The man nodded, and paused his form filling to grab a couple of fliers from the nearby stack. He prodded at one of them with a smile. “This place is usually full of
entertainment
,” he said knowingly, and returned to his forms.

Ellard grunted his thanks and rooted out his PDA.

The tracer in the rucksack was still blinking its telltale signal faithfully onto the tiny screen.

He watched for a while, as it wound its way back and forth, climbing into the mountains behind the city and making its way toward the interior of the island.

Soho, London

It had been late evening,
by the time the charter flight had landed at London’s Heathrow Airport, but Greere had still demanded that Ellard make his way over to The Olde Oak pub in Soho to update him. Ellard was tired, after having had a long night of his own the previous evening, and was less than enamoured at having to make the detour. He hadn’t had much sleep, except for on the plane. A couple of rather overweight, but adventurously demanding, middle-aged women had provided entertaining distraction for the majority of his afternoon and night in Mytilene, to the extent that he’d nearly not made it back to the airport to distantly observe Tin and Mercury, properly attired in their fresh, clean, No. 5 Desert Combat Dress, head through Security to board the plane to Cyprus.

Spring was well under way, but British temperatures, especially late evening, remained unusually chilly. It was far too cold for sitting at the few tables laid out in the narrow street in front of the pub, and all but the smokers were tucked inside behind The Olde Oak’s black painted, eighteenth century, swing doors. Ellard pushed through them and searched around the loudly chattering throng for his boss.

Greere was over at the bar. Engaged in what looked, uncomfortably, like a rather animated and intimate conversation with some short-haired, blonde boy. Ellard found it hard to tell nowadays but, to him, the youth didn’t look old enough to be in there. Greere obviously knew differently, or didn’t care. Ellard watched distastefully for a moment, as his superior officer reached across the bar, and brushed the boy’s fingers with his own ageing and podgy digits.

‘I’m surrounded by fucking gays,’ Ellard thought miserably to himself.

He discretely made his way around, to the opposite side of the intruding U-shaped bar, in a way that made it look like he hadn’t noticed where Greere was sitting. Finding a space at the counter, he made as if to order himself a drink, and surreptitiously watched as his boss extricated himself from his flirting and hurried round to him.

“Oh, there you are,” said Ellard, pretending surprise. “Do you want a drink? Where are you sitting?”

Greere avoided the question. “You’re not staying,” he growled. “Let’s step outside.”

Clearly his boss wanted a little personal space. Ellard pasted an expression of mock-disappointment onto his face. “Oh,” he said, unsurprised at Greere’s dismissive tone. “Okay.”

Stepping out into the cold air again, they took a few steps along the narrow back street to where they could talk. The chill was bitter, and only served to make Ellard feel even more annoyed.

“So?” Greere asked bluntly.

Ellard tugged at his jacket collar, trying to stop the frigid breeze from crawling under it. “I drove out to Tin’s place this morning after they left. It’s well hidden but not much to speak of.” He had helped himself to a good look around inside.

“Small?” asked Greere.

“Tiny. Lounge, kitchen, bathroom,” Ellard looked pointedly at his boss, “...
one
bedroom...” Greere seemed unaffected. “A couple of smaller outbuildings, more like large sheds. I scouted round but didn’t want to risk disturbing too much. We can find it again if we need to.” Ellard elected not to mention the various, more expensive looking items he’d personally noted for his own interest.

“Good,” said Greere. “We’ll need to search it properly, and clean it up after the mission.”

Ellard smiled. “Not expecting them to return?” he asked nastily.

“It’s unlikely, don’t you think?” said Greere dismissively. “Anyway, it’s time for you to get yourself off home. Things will likely be busy for a few days. Best you get yourself a good rest while you can.”

Ellard wondered why Greere didn’t just end his lecture with the words, ‘old man’ but elected to bite his tongue, and watched in sullen silence as his boss scurried enthusiastically back to the door of the pub and disappeared inside.

~~~~~

Midair, 200 km southwest of Kandahar Airbase

My dreams are back. They’ve popped into my head, in much the same way as work related nightmares used to creep into my psyche at the end of warm summer holidays. The tunnel is the same as before, and I can see you and Lizzie there, standing at the end, still smiling and waving back at me. Seeing you again makes me feel guilty for what has happened in Lesvos, but you seem unconcerned – supportive even. That makes me feel a bit better. It’s in keeping with your wonderful character that you should not begrudge me what little pleasures I might find in this otherwise bereft existence.

Why are you alone though? Where has Dad gone? He said he’d see me again soon?

Now it’s only the two of you, standing there. Just too far away from me. Just too close.

Something else is different too... What’s all that noise? The tunnel should be peaceful, silent, devoid of all noise but it roars incessantly like some raging beast. Growling to itself. I can even feel its vibrations running across my body: rumbling, angry, deep oscillations which stir at my guts...

“Nick?”

And I can hear a voice.

“Nick?”

My eyes blink open and my head jerks upright from my chest. Two familiar green pools of reassurance, sitting beneath fawn-brown, angled brows, stare carefully back at me.

“Nick, we’re nearly there,” Jack shouts over the engine noise. “You need to stay awake now. This is still a ‘hot’ LZ, despite all of the good progress being made here. There’s a significant risk from insurgent ground fire.”

“Ummm,” I grunt and stare, bleary-eyed, around the cavernous shadowy green interior of the C-130 Hercules. The sparse load-bay crew is scurrying around, pulling on flak jackets, and checking the lashings on the pallets. We are a small insignificance amongst them.

“Flak jackets?” I mumble.

“Yep,” he says.

“And ours?” I ask.

He grabs hard with both hands onto the narrow metal armrests of his flight seat, and nods to me that I should probably do the same. “Frequent fliers only,” he informs me with a rueful smile. “Maybe next time.”

~~~~~

London

‘KAF confirms Packages delivered intact and in transit to final destination. Materiel Requisition completed (attached). No issues or incidents during delivery. Mission complete. NFU. Ends.’

Greere scanned the mission update report, and inventory, that had just been posted by the Base Commander in Cyprus, nodded, and assigned the entire Mission Instruction document, including this update, to the ‘deep archive’. He couldn’t just delete it, which was a shame, but he could have it encrypted, and classified so comprehensively, that it would be decades before it ever surfaced again.

‘This action cannot be undone. Are you sure?’
said the warning box on his screen but Greere didn’t even read it.

He clicked ‘YES’.

~~~~~

Highway A1, Helmand Province, Afghanistan

A pair of fast jets appeared, as a couple of black dots sweeping low across the harsh Malmal Sar flatlands, approaching quickly from the East. Jack watched carefully through the windscreen as the two planes hurtled in close formation toward the road, then flicked themselves onto their right wingtips almost directly above the battered and potholed tarmac of Highway A1, and roared off again toward the mountains to the West. They had telltale winglets forward of their cockpits and large triangular delta wings crenelated by impressive payloads of destructive ordinance: ‘Typhoons,’ he thought to himself. ‘I wonder if it’s a routine patrol, or a fire mission?’ If it was the former, he hoped they were going to have a quiet day. If the latter, he wished them Godspeed.

Not far from here, up in the highlands, somewhere not far from where the jets looked to be headed, was a place that would never be far from his thoughts, and that he would never have stumbled away from had it not been for the eventual arrival of air support. Although a large part of him wished that the outcome of that awful day had been different, he knew it wasn’t anyone’s fault, other than the militants, that the aircraft, called in by his ambushed colleagues, had arrived a few minutes too late to save his buddies...

He was gripping harder than necessary onto the rigid plastic steering wheel, which juddered in his fists as the tired suspension of the car bounced across the uneven highway surface, and in his head he could hear the screaming, the shouts of confusion, and the anguished radio messages ringing in his ears again. Even though he was conscious of the long grey strip of roadway, leading off into the distance through the windscreen, he could see sand and dirt being kicked up, spouting angrily from the line of blue-sky backed earth, only inches away from where his face was pressed hard, onto the cruel and unforgiving soil, of one small corner, of this cruel and war-torn country.

“Are you okay?” Nick’s voice dragged him back to the present.

“Sorry,” he muttered, shaking his head to exorcise the memories.

“Are you sure?” Nick continued. “You seem pretty edgy to me.”

Jack glanced across at his passenger’s bulky form, squeezed into the front of the tiny car next to him, but Nick was looking away, staring impassively out of the side window. Jack knew this was probably a considerate attempt to give him more space, even in this cramped old rust-bucket, and he appreciated the gesture.

Nick was right. He’d been on edge.

He knew that they needed to be.

Every stray pile of rubbish, every empty cardboard box with panels flapping lazily in the desert winds, every car backfiring, every group of ambling males or females hiking along the roadside, might be a threat. Might conceal a dreaded improvised explosive device. Might be the death of them.

Or, more probably, might not.

You just didn’t know.

They were less than a third of the way into their journey, and would need to stay vigilant throughout.

He’d found this battered white Toyota saloon at a backstreet garage on the outskirts of Kandahar. Its bodywork had collected an impressive collection of knocks, scrapes, and large dents during its reasonably short life and had, as a result, not been an expensive cash purchase. Not that cost had been an issue. Anonymity was much more important. The engine had appeared, and sounded, like it was in good condition. Mileage suggested it hadn’t been used much outside of the town – which also explained its above average levels of aesthetic damage. Jack hoped his instincts would be proven right, and that the almost nonexistent suspension was the only way that the vehicle would let them down mechanically over the next day or so.

A darker patch of fresh tarmac, and two neat lines of well constructed anodised railings, slowly emerged from the shimmering late afternoon heat haze in front of them. They marked the Delaram Bridge.

“We’ll stop ahead,” he announced. “In Delaram. We need to get rid of these uniforms. We’re too conspicuous in them.” He glanced over to Nick, who nodded silently in acknowledgement. “We’ll stay the night there too,” he continued. “It’s better if we complete the journey in daylight. Especially as this road has some very exposed stretches where it crosses between the foothills north of here.”

“Worried about ambushes?” Nick asked.

Jack huffed. “That and breakdowns,” he replied candidly.

~~~~~

Delaram Market, Afghanistan

We wander amongst narrow lines of brightly canopied trestle tables, breathing air headily scented by piles of wildly coloured exotic spices, and surrounded by the babbling sounds of feverish bartering and, I guess, general gossip. The noises of this language are all completely alien to me and, for that, they match this whole environment perfectly.

All day I have watched, transfixed, as sight after sight has drifted into my eyes and then burned itself inexorably onto my retinas. These last few months have been one long journey into the complete unknown, and Afghanistan has just taken this to another level.

From rows of ramshackle dry-stone buildings, that make Jack’s walling efforts look like world-class masonry, to the elegant spindle-like minarets of beautifully decorated mosques. From endless expanses of dry-brown dusty desert, to a distant glimpse of towering snow-topped mountains. From the hulking masses of armoured personnel carriers, to mopeds with whole families, and sometimes their livestock, balanced precariously on top. Spending just part of one day in this land, has made me feel like I have never been so far away from home. So far away from anything I understand.

“These are good,” says Jack.

The sound of his voice reminds me of how glad I am that he’s here with me, and I move closer to him to see what he’s looking at.

“These are called Kurta or sometimes Kameez,” he says, holding one of the long beige-white shirts up against the front of my battledress for size. “This linen is good and thick, but not too hot.” He bundles up a couple of them, and starts rooting through the hats.

All around us, the milling crowds of people wear similar clothing. Loose fitting shirts and trousers. Practical, simple, clothing. Whites, off-whites, and browns. The women appear to dress similarly, though sometimes in brighter colours. Pinks, greens, blues, reds, and sometimes purple, are all visible as I scan around.

Jack turns round with a tan-coloured, flat, round hat on his head. It’s made of soft material and its disc is being pushed up slightly by the crown of his skull underneath. It has a striped roll of material beneath its narrow circular brim which clings to his forehead to hold it in place. At a glance it looks a little like a large, crusty, apple pie perched on his crown. “What d’you reckon?” he asks with a grin.

I stifle my immediate reaction. “Very stylish,” I say sarcastically, though it does suit him quite well.

“This is a Pakol,” he says, plucking it off his head, and swivelling it in his hands in front of him. “Also known as a Mujahideen Cap.”