she broke off, she stared deeply into his eyes for the briefest moment, but it was enough to underline everything he had sensed in her kiss.
‘You’d better come back, Hunter.’ She spun round and marched away towards the buildings.
For the first time in his life, Hunter was lost for words.
‘She didn’t even know I was here,’ Hal said, but Hunter was distracted by the jumbled thoughts rolling through his mind as he watched Samantha’s form become obscured by the swirling snow.
‘Bloody hell. I think she likes me,’ he said, amazed.
The choppers’ engines fired up one after another, the whirling blades raising a snowstorm around them. Hunter ducked down, covering his face with one arm, and clapped Hal on the shoulder; his friend appeared dazed.
‘Don’t worry, mate. How can I not come back after that?’ Hal stared at him, troubled and distracted. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to hug you.’
‘Take care, Hunter.’ Hal forced a smile, then ran for the cover of the college buildings.
Hunter hurried, keeping low, to climb into the second chopper, his heart racing. He felt strangely out of sorts, excited yet unsettled by the discovery of some so far unconsidered part of himself. As the chopper rose on the unsteady currents, he stared down at the snow-swept field, then at Magdalen as it dropped away below him and finally at the disappearing city. He could still taste her on his lips.
Chapter Six
‘ It can only be done by blood and iron.’
The army had dug in along a ridge of hills south-east of Moffat in the Scottish Borders, but they were barely prepared for the near-arctic conditions. The ground was as hard as iron, frozen to a depth of at least twelve inches underfoot, and the wind that blew from the north felt harsh enough to take the skin from their faces. Overnight the temperature plummeted to minus ten, worse with the wind-chill factor.
‘Bloody hell, Hunter. This is a nightmare.’ Clevis stamped his feet and clapped his hands as he circled the campfire, little more than the tip of his broken nose visible in the depths of his hood.
Hunter looked out over the tent city and the constellation of campfires spread across the hillsides, each one trailing a thick line of black smoke up to the colour-leached dawn sky. ‘You know what I’m thinking? This is a new Ice Age.’
‘It’s not bloody fair. We’d barely got over the Fall when the plague came along. And now this.’ Clevis sounded petulant, but he was barely seventeen, hardly trained, emotionally immature. And Hunter had to take him on a potential suicide mission. Clevis shouldn’t have been there at all, but with forces so badly depleted they had to make do in many different areas, even if that meant sending a barely trained youth on a Special Forces operation. They needed the numbers to make the plan work and Hunter just had to hope that the others would cover for the lad. Clevis really didn’t know how unfair it was, but Hunter did, and that knowledge troubled him deeply. He liked Clevis; for all his faults, the boy was decent-hearted and truly believed in the cause for which he was fighting.
As Hunter surveyed the snowy wastes stretching away towards the sooty streak of black on the horizon that signified the enemy’s location, he realised that Clevis was staring at him. ‘I’ve told you not to do that.’
‘Sorry.’ Clevis wiped the back of his hand across his dripping nose. ‘It’s just, I was thinking-’
‘Well, don’t.’
‘How many men have you killed, Captain?’
One hundred and sixty seven.
‘I can’t remember.’
Every face locked in place, eye colour, hair colour, method of dispatch.
‘It’s a dirty business, Clevis, but we do it so other people don’t have to.’
He would never forget any of them.
‘What’s it like?’ Clevis asked hesitantly. ‘I mean, when you actually… do it?’
‘Stop asking impertinent questions. We’ve got a job to do.’ He prayed that Clevis could escape any killing. The act was like a worm in an apple, getting fatter by the day with each mouthful it devoured. Nobody was immune. Hunter consoled himself with the knowledge that Clevis would probably be dead before he had the chance to raise his weapon.
‘We begin Operation Clear Skies at oh-seven-hundred hours.’ The General rested his two meaty fists on the trestle table in the conference tent and surveyed Hunter’s team. ‘By that time, you will be deep in the heart of enemy territory. Your mission is to cause as much disruption to the enemy’s lines as possible. Chaos and confusion are the order of the day. Let them know we are not weak. That we are not going to roll over and die. By the end of this day, I want them reconsidering their decision to invade.’
Hunter cast a surreptitious glance across his team. Apart from Clevis, there were four others, all hard men, all aware of what potentially lay ahead for them. Bradley was from Kent, a scar running down his left cheek like an exclamation mark, the result of an Iraqi bayonet. Next to him, Coop was slight but more focused than anyone Hunter knew; he was from Birmingham, but with strong Jamaican roots. Spencer was a hard man, and silent, Ormston a sneaky little shit who was surprisingly reliable in a crisis, both of them from some Godforsaken industrial town or other in the north. They rarely spoke about their pasts; the present, for all its misery, was clearly so much more appetising.
It was Ormston who raised his hand to speak first. ‘Excuse me, sir, but do you have any idea what might be waiting for us over the hill? I heard there was a film-?’
‘Very poor quality. You wouldn’t learn anything from it that would help you,’ the General lied. Even Hunter hadn’t seen the video, but he knew exactly why it was being kept from them: no one would venture over that hill if they knew what horrors were waiting for them. But wasn’t that the case in any war?
‘The frontal assault will give them hell,’ the General said. ‘You have my word on that. We’re throwing everything at them, every weapon at our disposal apart from nukes.’ He hesitated; such weapons were clearly still an option for another time. ‘The strategy is for massive shock, devastate their forces within the first twenty-four hours.’
Hunter fought the urge to smile. If wishes were fishes they’d need a sea of batter.
‘God be with you,’ the General said. ‘Go into the fray with good heart. It is a just fight, for the future of our country and our people.’
The General nodded and Hunter led his men out. They made their way in silence across the camp site until Bradley stopped suddenly and exclaimed, ‘Bleedin’ ’ell. Look at that.’
The sky behind them was black. At first, Hunter thought it was a whirlwind of dust, but as it drew closer he could see irregular edges and rapid movement within the body of the darkness.
‘Birds,’ Spencer said flatly.
‘Crows.’ Coop looked at the approaching cloud uneasily.
‘Now that ain’t natural,’ Bradley said in hushed tones.
The crows’ actions became even more unnatural as they neared. Initially, their cawing was discordant in the early morning peace, but gradually they fell eerily silent. They descended in a wild flapping cloud over the hillside behind the camp, settling on trees, hedges, fences, filling the fields so that the snow was obscured by an oily blackness; it looked to Hunter like some horrible pollution was running down the slope towards them.
Once they had landed, the crows fell still. It looked to all the men as though the birds were watching the camp with their gleaming eyes, waiting. Hunter knew the symbolism and wasn’t about to say anything, but Coop spoke up. ‘They used to say that crows gathered before battles, waiting to feed on the dead, as if they knew exactly
