Battlefield 3: The Russian

‘Men like you are a disgrace to the service. You make me sick, you piece of shit.’

Black took a step towards him.

‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘There. Was. Nothing. I. Could. Do. This is a war. People get killed. Six of my own men were killed yesterday and that is war. You got that?’

Both men watched him now, trying to gauge what sort of opponent he was going to be. The short angry one’s fist moved up a fraction and before it had gone two inches Blackburn had pinned his arm behind his back. ‘Now, take your friend and go and pound the punchbag. Okay?’

He saw Cole approaching and released the man’s arm. The three of them saluted and Harker’s friends moved on. Cole watched them go, then gave Blackburn a look.

‘Just shooting the breeze there, Sir.’

‘Okay, Sergeant. Let’s get this one done, okay?’

19

Bazargan, Northern Iran

It was in their training from day one. Be prepared for nothing to be what it seems, trust no one you don’t have to, and never entirely drop your guard with those you do trust. Spetsnaz were trained to do many things that ordinary soldiers wouldn’t have a clue about. Part of the selection process was to weed out anyone who showed any tendency to take anything for granted. Working undercover, living double lives, going months embedded in hostile organisations without hearing a friendly voice, living on your wits, thinking for yourself, making life or death decisions about who to kill and who you might save. Achieving this required resources that were beyond most humans.

This one had it all. Dima could blame Paliov for the design of the mission, for its poor chain of command, for the intelligence failures — about Kaffarov, about what to expect in the compound. He could blame Shenk for his failure to wait until the compound was secured, for engaging in the firefight, putting his chopper in harm’s way. But above all Dima blamed himself for allowing Paliov to draw him into this catastrophic misadventure, and he particularly blamed himself for recruiting the team around him, who came willingly because they believed in him.

All of these thoughts ran through his head as he led them back to the cars. Already they could hear the PLR helicopter circling, looking for somewhere to land other than the compound, strewn as it was with bodies and debris.

They moved as swiftly as they could, bending low, dodging between branches and leaping over dips in the boggy ground. None of them spoke. He glanced at Gregorin and Zirak, their faces masks of shock, and sorrow for their comrades, roasted alive.

‘Anyone see where that missile came from?’ Vladimir asked, as they walked. “Cos it sure as hell didn’t come from the ground.’

Dima paused, looked at them all. Gregorin nodded. ‘He’s right. Came in from the west, not from below.’

Dima brought them to a halt and grouped them into a huddle. ‘What happened back there — I’ve seen some fuckups but none of them come close to that. A waste of fine men, for which I take responsibility.’

The others looked at the ground.

Kroll raised a finger. ‘Does this mean we’re headed home?’

Dima looked at their faces. ‘Each man is free to make his choice.’

Vladimir spoke next. ‘What’s your choice?’

Dima didn’t need to think. He already knew. ‘Continue. Hunt down Kaffarov, find his WMD.’

Vladimir looked at Kroll, then back to Dima. ‘Then I’m in.’

The other three nodded in unison.

For the first time that night Dima had a reason to feel optimistic.

‘From now on — our plan: no one else’s. We do this thing our way’

Dima stepped away from the group to get Paliov on the satphone secure line. When he had finished giving the report there was a long silence at the other end.

‘You still there?’

‘Yes, still here,’ came Paliov’s weary reply. ‘What do you want me to say?’

‘Kaffarov wasn’t abducted. He was there willingly. Tell me right now you didn’t lie to me.’

A long pause. ‘The intelligence was thin. We drew the wrong conclusions. I apologise. Nothing with Kaffarov is straightforward, you know that.’

‘And he knew we were coming for him. He was tipped off. There was a leak.’

Paliov’s indignation brought him back to life. ‘An outrageous suggestion. For all you know he may have just changed his plans.’

‘If you weren’t so defensive I might have believed you. Shenk’s chopper was downed by an air- to-air missile. Someone was ready for us. You better take a long hard look at who knew what. Someone told us Al Bashir’s come under “outside influences”. Any bright ideas from the great Russian intelligence machine? ’

Another silence on the end of the phone. The sound of Paliov digesting yet more unpalatable information. They both knew what each of them was thinking. Eventually Paliov groaned. ‘That doesn’t bear thinking about.’

‘Well you better think about it, but keep it to yourself. If it’s true, the longer Kaffarov goes on not realising we know, the better. He’ll get to hear about what happened at the compound, but it’s better he thinks the mission’s been aborted.’

‘So you’re going on?’

‘We still have a deal, remember?’

20

It was starting to get light. They changed out of their kit and put on the local clothing again. All of the kit went into the cars’ trunks. Each of them kept a handgun and a knife on them and put their compact AKs in the footwells. Vladimir took the wheel of the lead car with Kroll and Dima sitting in the back. Zirak and Gregorin were in the second vehicle — one at the wheel, the other in the rear watching their backs.

Dima was still seething, but he did his best to keep it from the others. He needed them to be in no doubt that he was keeping it together.

‘From now on we do this my way. The signal Shenk was getting from the WMD. Is it still transmitting?’ Kroll, the scanner in his lap, shrugged. ‘Well find out. If Kaffarov hasn’t disabled it I want a grid reference immediately and any changes sent to me by text.’

They took the road going northwest towards Gurbulak. The sooner they put some distance between them and the Bazargan compound the better. Dima called the contact who had emailed him the photos of the compound walls. Darwish gave them directions to a tea shop run by a ‘most trusted friend’ in Meliksah, a small town eighteen kilometres away. Dima located it on the map and radioed the reference to the second car.

‘Tea shop? What about breakfast?’ was Zirak’s response.

At the first crossroads they hit a road block, two pick-up trucks with the letters PLR daubed hastily on their sides, parked across the road to make a tight chicane, and two men with PLR insignia pinned on their jackets, each with an AK.

From the back Dima instructed Vladimir. ‘Brake late and hard. Look furious.’

Vladimir snorted. ‘They look like they got hired ten minutes ago.’

Before the Peykan had come to a stop Dima was out of the car, shouting furiously in Farsi. ‘Are you the escort? Turn these trucks round and take us through to Kharvanah. Now!’

The guards looked at each other.

‘Don’t you know who I am?’

Dima thrust his dog-eared Iranian passport at them. ‘You know what’s happening.’ He gestured furiously at the hills behind them. ‘An entire platoon of foreign insurgents in those hills is what. You should be looking for them, not stopping senior PLR officials. Who’s your commanding officer?’ Dima pulled out his phone. ‘I’m calling him right