Black’s radio squawked: Lieutenant Cole.
‘
‘
Jackson was out of contact. That could only mean something bad.
Black looked at the crew. They’d all heard the order on their headsets. No one spoke for a few seconds, as if they were conserving every last grain of energy.
‘So, anyone else don’t get what we’re doing here?’ Montes was off on his high school debating society riff again. Blackburn wished he would shut up and just do his job. He was tired, and this was making him feel tireder.
‘Quit being a fucking hippie, Montes.’ Chaffin ripped the wrapper off a stick of gum and folded it into his mouth.
Montes loosened his grip on his weapon.
‘All I’m saying is we’re here to keep a lid on things, not start a fucking war with Iran.’
‘The PLR’s not Iran.’
‘Man, we been over this a hunnert times.’
Chaffin put his hands over his face.
Black continued. ‘They’re
‘You got that now, Montes, you fucking tree hugger? We want your opinion, we’ll give it to you. All right?’
Blackburn hoped this wasn’t going to evolve into something full-blown and personal between Chaffin and Montes. Debating the relative merits of twin cheerleaders or a one-on-one with the new British princess was a pleasantly pointless diversion. Questioning their entire purpose in this hellhole could develop into a discipline problem.
They’d served in the same platoon for eighteen months. They were family. But the terms of engagement had changed. They’d gone in thinking they’d be the last American deployment in the area, and Chaffin wasn’t the only one whose patience was running out. The whole place was sinking back into chaos. Montes was becoming the target for his frustration, and Blackburn didn’t blame him. Privately, he knew Montes had a point. He wondered what a man like him was even doing there, when he should have been handing out flyers about the decline of capitalism on a leafy campus somewhere. But Blackburn didn’t have time to be anyone’s camp counsellor. Jackson’s Stryker had gone silent and they had no choice but to go look for it. It’s what you did. What you didn’t do was sit in a 104°F sardine can discussing it like a bunch of liberals on PBS.
He raised his voice a notch.
‘Look at me. Montes? This is our job.’
‘Yeah, baby, I hear that.’
Black raised a hand.
‘And to finish the job, we gotta deal with the PLR. And to do that, sooner or later we gotta go cross the border.’
Chaffin opened his mouth to speak, but Blackburn silenced him with a look.
They dismounted from the Stryker and fanned out. The Spinza Meat Market was an old cloistered building with a gallery on the upper level. A week ago it had been swarming with activity. Today it was deserted: not a good sign. Campo tapped Blackburn on the shoulder. ‘Check this out.’
A freshly painted mural of Al Bashir, the PLR leader. A good likeness, Blackburn thought: someone had taken their time.
‘They sainting him here. He their man, now.’ Montes was next to them. The artist had given the Iranian former Air Force General a fierce glare of certainty. ‘Dude looks like he means business.’
‘Jerkoff. It’s just a painting. He’s gotta be as old as your granny. They just left out the wheelchair.’
‘Ever ask yourself how this part of the world got so fucked up all the time?’
‘Hey I just work here, Montes. Other people work that shit out.’
Montes persisted. ‘How long before we rolling ourselves into Iran?’
Blackburn waved them forward. ‘That’s way above my pay grade. Let’s go find this patrol.’
The old man was squatting in a doorway. Montes was crouched down, talking, his weapon pushed behind his shoulder, out of the way. He held up ten fingers, made fists, then another ten, and then another ten, then mimed using a machine gun. To give him his due, he was trying to be useful.
‘He’s saying there were thirty, all armed. Came through half an hour ago.’ He turned back to the old man. ‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘Thanks, I’ll take it from here.’
Black leaned down, continued in Arabic.
‘
The old man shrugged.
‘
He shook his head, although it could have been more of a tremor, and pointed at the westward gate of the market.
‘Well, let’s go the way the man says.’
The gate led into a narrow street of three-storey buildings. Blackburn heard a couple of shutters close and a baby crying. A Toyota pick-up lay sideways across the street, the front fender torn away as if it had been swiped by a much heavier vehicle and in a hurry.
Black signalled to the others to hug the walls. ‘Big cross street here, exposed.’
They all heard the rumble at the same time. Tracked vehicle. Blackburn flattened himself against the corner wall and peered round. He saw the vehicle nose out of a gateway, a block up the cross street, and turn left, moving away at patrol speed.
Black got on the radio.
‘
‘
‘
‘
They crossed the road in twos.
‘Keep it moving!’
‘So quiet it’s like they got the whole place on lockdown.’
‘Or the Pied Piper’s just been through.’
‘I no like this shit.’
‘Okay, that’s a Combat Indicator. Take it slowly guys.’
The side street the APC came from was narrow, a chasm of tall buildings with overhanging upper storeys, throwing it into dark shadow. At the other end it opened into a small plaza. A group of women were huddled down behind wicker baskets in a deep doorway near the plaza entrance. They were waving them forward, pointing upwards.
‘Okay, let’s not do what the lady says just yet. Get visual on the rooftops.’
They froze, scanning the rooftops and every shuttered window. Blackburn saw the silhouetted figure first, just as the masonry beside him shattered. ‘Sniper! Cover, cover!’
Black wheeled round just in time to see Chaffin’s shoulder explode. ‘Man down. Smoke cover. Now!’
Campo tossed a white phosphorus grenade to block the sniper while Blackburn and Montes grabbed Chaffin and pulled him into a doorway, but he didn’t want to go, wrestling them with his dissipating strength. ‘Get me back up. I can still shoot. Let me at him, the fucker.’
‘Easy soldier.’
Matkovic was screaming down the radio.
‘
The wound was bloody but not deep. Blackburn let Chaffin get to his feet. He swayed, then grinned. ‘I’m
