Battlefield 3: The Russian

fucked up but I’m up. Let me at ’em.’

Through the smoke, ahead, Matkovic loosed off a mag at the rooftop where Chaffin’s sniper had been. Paused, waited.

As the smoke cleared, Blackburn saw the sniper fold up on himself and drop like a bad guy in a Western. The body thumped into the street ten feet from Matkovic, who stood in a doorway. But Matkovic didn’t react. He was static, staring ahead into the plaza. Something about his stance, weapon down, told Blackburn that Matkovic had seen something he was going to have trouble forgetting. Without altering his gaze he beckoned to Black.

‘Think we’ve found what we came for.’

Two dead marines were sprawled at the gates to the plaza. One, helmet gone, face half off, looked like he’d been closest to an RPG. The other, a wide red crater in his chest, had a pensive look in his eyes, which were fixed on the blazing sky. Blackburn leaned down, took the tags off one, then the other, and pushed them into his top pocket. ‘Fuck this day.’

‘Black, look up!’

Matkovic was first into the plaza. Bodies and body parts had been thrown in all directions. The Stryker was on its side, its ramp down and its tyres on fire, with all eight wheels twisted at different angles. Close by was the chassis of what might have been a small truck or bus, the bodywork vaporised by the IED it had been carrying. A low, rhythmic groaning was coming from inside the Stryker.

Matkovic was already on the radio ordering CAS-EVAC, trying to keep his rage under control as the voice on the other end pressed him for more detail, eventually exploding. ‘Just get the fuck here yesterday, okay?’

He turned to Blackburn. ‘Going to check inside the Stryker.’

‘Stop.’ The word was out of his mouth before Blackburn knew why he’d said it. There were several other damaged vehicles in the plaza, two minibuses, glass all gone, peppered with shrapnel dents. Blackburn motioned them back, tracked right until he could see another vehicle, a Nissan pick-up, on the other side of the Stryker. Like the others it was a mess, its windows and lights gone, every panel dented. But something was wrong.

It was the tyres. Still inflated. They should have been shredded. Matkovic looked at Black, then the pick-up. Some civilians were starting to appear at their windows, looking down on the plaza. Matkovic waved his hands in the air like he was doing the breaststroke, screaming in Arabic: ‘Back inside!’

Black tracked further right, scanning what he could of the area round the pick-up, looking for detonator wires. Whoever planted this was waiting until as many US as possible were crowded around the Stryker tending the dying and wounded. A woman, only her large brown eyes visible under a dusty grey burka, was watching him from behind a fruit stand: a young woman — his age, maybe younger. He watched her gaze move slowly, deliberately, away from him and up to a first storey window on the south side of the square, then back down to him again. Then she slipped into the shadow of her doorway and was gone. He scanned the pavement again. It was strewn with bits of brick and metal and flesh. Amongst the mess he saw the wire snaking across to the building that had been pointed out by the woman’s eyes.

All the crew were stopped, waiting. They knew what he was doing. That was the upside of having been together in this shithole for so long — they could practically read each others’ minds. He’d miss that when it was over, when he was home. Where else would he ever have that closeness, that rapport? With a woman maybe? A family? Or would he be too fucked up by then. Maybe he’d become too good at this, and blow his chance of having a life. One thing at a time, he said to himself: focus.

He took his time, backed out of the square, fixing the building in his mind before he checked out an approach to it from its rear. Out of view, he slid swiftly through a passage that would lead to the back of the houses. He had cleared so many properties like these he could guess the layout, even though he had never been in this square before. Side entrances in the alleys were common. The stairs usually went sideways, the first floor front rooms, usually the largest, stretched across the building. There was music coming from this one, from inside the ground floor. He stepped in through a curtained doorway: a kitchen, two clean tea glasses on the draining board and a radio, playing that high pitched music. He reached in and, very slowly, turned up the volume. He thought of taking off his boots, decided against it. There were two bodies on the stairs, a woman and a girl. Both shot through the head, proof he was on the right track. He didn’t pause, but the split second’s vision was still sickening. He tiptoed up the stairs, listening to the blood hammering through his veins, adrenalin blocking every impulse but what he needed to get the job done.

At the top of the stairs he paused, about to step into the room. He saw the car battery, the wires, the jaws of the jump leads, one attached, one waiting. But nothing else. He just had enough time to see that it was empty before a blow to the back of his neck flattened him, his head inches from the battery. On his way down he managed to twist to one side and reach for his KBAR knife, his M4 too unwieldy in the narrow space. The figure was in shadow, a blur of fabric. As it lunged for the battery, Blackburn put the knife deep into a thigh — hitting the femoral artery. The scream was piercingly high. Too high for a man. A boy?

As he struggled to a kneeling position his assailant slammed down on to the floor beside him. Not a man or a boy, but a girl, a lake of blood gushing out from under her shalwar kameez, writhing like a beached marlin, seemingly unaware of the blood draining out of her. In between gasps she let out a torrent of Arabic. Blackburn could only make out scum pig and hell. But the message was clear. She went on struggling, sliding in her own blood. If he was going to save her he had about twenty seconds.

‘Let me help you. Or you will die.’

How many times had he said that, and how many times had his help been rejected? They had come to help. But it didn’t always look that way. As he reached down to her, she lashed out.

‘PLR?’

‘The PLR will destroy you all. You are finished. Finished.’

She tried to repeat the word again but nothing came and Blackburn watched helplesss as the life emptied from her.

4

Moscow

It was after two a.m. when Dima got back to his hotel room. Getting out of the Aquarium had been more difficult than getting in: one tradition that had been kept on. When he left Paliov, he’d found a trio of Internal Affairs heavies in the outer office. Hoping they were merely for decoration he started to move past them, but they blocked his way. He decided to deploy the sweet talk before punching anyone. A bit of foreplay, he thought to himself as he sized up the leader of the three, a face he recognised from way back.

‘And what can I do for you gentlemen?’

Two of them looked out of practice, their muscles gone soft from years of hitting those too weak to fight back. The one he had to worry about was Fremarov, a Mongolian who had served with him in Afghanistan. The once proud soldier was now in the slow lane, eking out his time up to retirement doing the shit jobs reserved for older operatives who hadn’t been smart enough — or unpleasant enough — to progress up the greasy pole. Just the sight of him made Dima thankful that he’d got out when he had.

‘Fremarov, old friend. How’s life treating you?’

The pair of bookends looked bemused, thrown by this unexpected greeting from someone they’d been sent to detain.

Eventually Fremarov spoke. ‘This is awkward.’

‘What did they tell you? That I’ve broken ranks, failed to follow orders, spun out of control?’

‘Something like that.’

‘A simple misunderstanding: bit of a crossed wire that’s all. Right hand doesn’t know what the left hand is doing. You know what they’re like.’

‘Yeah.’ Despite his instructions, Fremarov gave a shrug. With fifteen years to go till he could collect his pension, why not use up another five minutes? The bookends looked less convinced.

‘Your comrade here is a bloody good bloke,’ said Dima. ‘Saved my life on more than one occasion.’

Fremarov smiled. They both knew it was crap, but it sounded good. ‘It was the other way round, you bastard, as well you know.’

‘Was it? I can never remember. Well, it was a laugh anyhow.’