from a back window where the tarpaulin had failed to cover the glass completely, and he knew that the hangar would be full of activity, even though it was only the small hours. He didn’t feel like company, so he kept to the shadows as he skirted round the edge of the hangar, not really knowing what he was doing or where he was going. Wandering without purpose.
It was a noise overhead that made him stop and press his back against the wall of the hangar.
He recognized immediately the distinctive sound of a Black Hawk, and it sent a series of images flashing through his head: the two body bags; the shower of shrapnel from the exploding chopper…
He snapped himself out of it and turned his attention back to the Black Hawk. It was flying low over the base – thirty metres max – and was heading in from the south over towards the LZ in front of the Regiment hangar. The outline of the helicopter immediately told him it was one of the stealth models he’d seen in Pakistan. No one had access to these machines but Delta and the SEALs. One or the other was about to touch down.
Joe kept close to the edge of the hangar, stopping at one of the front corners. Light was spilling from the front – the main door was open – and peering round he could see the elongated shadow of someone standing at the entrance.
The modified Black Hawk hovered above the LZ and starting losing height. The shadow moved forward and Joe saw the thin, tall form of Dom Fletcher walking towards the HESCO that separated the hangar from the landing zone. Someone inside the hangar slid the door shut and the sudden absence of light messed momentarily with Joe’s night vision. By the time he’d got it back a few seconds later, Fletcher had disappeared.
Joe crossed the ten metres between the corner of the hangar and the opening in the HESCO wall. He could hear voices on the other side.
‘Yank friends of yours, boss?’
‘Shut the fuck up and keep your positions.’ Fletcher sounded distracted.
A pause.
‘Wanker,’ the first voice said. The OC had clearly left.
A second voice just grunted in agreement.
‘Fucking Yanks,’ the first voice continued. ‘Why’s Fletcher licking this lot’s arses, anyway?’
Joe moved, away from the opening and along the HESCO wall, coming to a halt after about fifteen metres. He didn’t want the OC to see him loitering there. Fletcher had already given him, Ricky and the others the third degree during their debrief, massaging the egos of the two American spooks who’d been in on the meet, and Joe had had it with his mock-Sandhurst bullshit. So he kept still in the shadows, waiting for a good moment to head back to his cot.
Twenty seconds passed. Fletcher appeared, striding back through the opening and towards the hangar. A line of soldiers followed, walking less quickly than the OC, some of them in pairs, others in single file. He counted them: twelve, not including Fletcher. When the OC slung open the door of the hangar again, the glow from inside lit them up. All the new arrivals except one had big, bushy beards. They were distinctively American. Some wore jeans, others 511 pants. They were all carrying helmets, plate hangers and rifles – M4s with torches and laser sights mounted. Joe instantly recognized the slow, confident swagger of special forces personnel, and as one of these newcomers looked over his shoulder to say something to a mate, he recognized something else as well.
His face.
The guy might have been fifteen metres away, but Joe’s eyes were sharp and he’d been trained to record the tiniest detail almost without knowing he was doing it. The soldier was the only one without a beard, and his upper lip jumped out at Joe: the tiny scar – the harelip, surgically repaired.
Instantly, Joe was back in Abbottabad, hidden among the rubble, staring at the face of the SEAL manhandling Cairo away from the scene.
A second later the guy had turned his head again and was walking into the hangar. And after ten seconds the whole unit was inside, and somebody was sliding the metal door shut.
Darkness. Silence. The Black Hawk had powered down and it felt as though the whole camp had suddenly plunged itself into a moment of uncharacteristic stillness. Joe crept back to his bunkhouse. He didn’t expect to sleep.
Ricky was scowling. JJ too. Joe didn’t blame them. The sun wasn’t even up when the summons had come: Fletcher needed them in the briefing area. Sharpish.
‘What the fuck does he want?’ JJ muttered, scratching at his beard. Joe’s own face was itching too. It might be early, but the temperature was already hot and he still hadn’t showered since they’d returned from Abbottabad. He knew he must stink, but everyone stank out here. He half wondered if he should tell the others that at least one of the guys who’d conducted the raid on Abbottabad had just popped in for a cosy little chat with Fletcher. Maybe if he’d been alone with Ricky, he would have. But he kept quiet as they headed to their RV.
Fletcher didn’t look like a man who’d been up in the small hours. His eyes were bright, his uniform fresh and now he was clean-shaven. When they entered, he was examining imagery at the computer screens, accompanied by three men Joe didn’t recognize. One of them was wearing standard Yankee multicam; the other two were in suits and did not have a military bearing. The moment Fletcher saw them, he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the briefing area before turning back to his screens. Joe and Ricky exchanged a look and followed his instruction.
Raz, who had partnered JJ back in Abbottabad, was already in the briefing room. He was sitting in the back row of seats, looking thoroughly pissed off. He was not the only man there. Standing silently against the walls were the twelve American SF men that Joe had seen arriving just a couple of hours ago. Joe got a better look at them. They were all wearing black and white shamags around their necks, and their shades were either propped up on their foreheads or hanging round their necks on black cord. Seven of them wore beards that were even more unkempt than Joe’s; none of them wore smiles. They all had skin that was baked leathery brown and, with the exception of three of them, had multicam baseball caps fitted backwards over their heads. The standard uniform of the American SF soldier. Joe picked out the man with the scarred lip. He wore neither a baseball cap nor a beard. He looked Latino, with slicked-back hair and pock-marked skin. He was staring straight ahead and, like all the others, he didn’t even acknowledge the arrival of the SAS men.
‘Sit down!’
Joe looked over his shoulder to see Fletcher enter, along with the three strangers. Joe and his mates took seats next to Raz. None of the Americans moved; not until the three strangers had reached the front of the briefing area and the uniformed man had nodded at them. At his signal they silently occupied the front two rows, while Fletcher and the three others remained standing at the front.
It was Fletcher who spoke first. He neither welcomed nor introduced anyone. Not his style. ‘OK gentlemen,’ he instructed. ‘Here’s what you need to know. Intelligence wires are buzzing. I don’t have to tell you why. We’ve got every AQ cell from Kabul to Kidderminster planning a revenge attack.’
‘Surprise surprise,’ Raz muttered.
‘Village of Nawaz, thirty-five klicks south-east of here. Our American friends’ – he indicated his three companions – ‘have been monitoring ICOM chatter radiating from a known Taliban communications centre based in an old school building. It seems to suggest that—’
The uniformed Yank stood forward. ‘Why don’t I take it from there?’ he said in a lazy drawl.
Fletcher nodded, but Joe noticed a slight tightness around his eyes.
‘The name Anwar Zahari won’t mean anything to any of you gentlemen,’ the Yank said. ‘No reason why it should. He’s a Taliban grunt, but he’s a very skilled explosives engineer. Last known location was an AQ sanctuary in Eritrea. We weren’t aware of his presence in this part of the world until just a few hours ago when his name started coming over the ICOM. If he’s in the area and active, he’s only doing one thing. We need to stop him from doing it. From what we can establish, he’s only going to be in Nawaz for a few hours. We can’t wait till nightfall.
‘Intel suggests all the roads in are being watched, so you’ll have to approach cross-country by foot. We have two Black Hawks online for Bagram. They’ll be on the ground in thirty minutes. I want two teams: one to enter Nawaz from the west, one from the east. You’ll have drone support, but don’t rely on it. It’s a heavily populated area, and we need to keep civilian casualties to a minimum.’
