Fortress

6

Tom approached the USAF command tent from the rear. Inside, it was filled with a choking cloud of dust from a freshly exploded grenade. There were two dead, their body armour only half on, and a bloody trail where a third had crawled a few metres before succumbing to his injuries. There was nothing he could do for them. And there was firing outside. He ducked out, flattened himself against the Hesco wall and got his first sight of the insurgents. Two hundred metres away, a dozen or more were advancing on the next aircraft. They looked like ANA; one was carrying an RPG launcher, another lugging a heavy machine-gun.

Tom darted forward, staying parallel but out of their line of sight, heading towards a maintenance hangar. A bullet zinged over his head, which could only have come from the hangar.

‘I’m a Brit!’ he yelled, into the darkness.

Inside, a bunch of night crew, mechanics and supply clerks were holed up behind tool cabinets, the muzzles of their rifles trained on the doors. What the fuck were they doing, crammed together like sitting ducks? The walls of the hangar were no more than thin aluminium sheeting. If their attackers felt like it, they could just dump a few rounds on them and they’d be gone.

A dazed-looking mechanic lifted his head from behind a pile of tyres. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

These guys packed wrenches and wielded power drills, but as US Marines they were also trained in basic infantry tactics. There wasn’t much time to think. The camp’s size was also its weakness: the base operations centre was at least two miles away. The staff there could well be oblivious. By the time a response team was on site the insurgents would have done their worst. The other question troubling Tom — where had they come from? Was this really an insider attack, or just designed to look like one?

Out on the flight line Tom saw one of them shoulder his RPG launcher and take aim. A second later another Harrier exploded in a massive balloon of flame. Loaded with over ten thousand pounds of fuel, the first plane was now no more than a flaming carcass, the three hundred explosive rounds in its armoury going off like a giant demented firework. Debris showered the hangar’s thin roof. He crouched and addressed the mechanics.

‘No point staying here — they find you, they’ll fry you. You guys give me cover. I’ll get near enough to take some out.’

He snatched up one of their weapons and a couple of mags. No one argued.

From the door he scanned the flight line and made a plan. Once in motion he had no way of communicating with these men so he had to keep it simple. The insurgents clearly aimed to take out as many of the aircraft as they could. What was more, they seemed to know where they were going. A sickening thought came to him. Beyond the flight line, surrounded by earth embankments, were the fuel farms, massive rubber bladders holding millions of gallons of aviation fuel.

Covering fire would get him to the blast barriers, ten-foot-high concrete walls, which were supposed to stop incoming mortars or anything else the enemy might want to hurl at the aircraft. It might also deflect the insurgents, who would then return fire, or perhaps cause them to split up. Even in the few seconds he had eyes on them it was clear that they were committed and fearless but had evidently decided — or been told — to stick together in one clump. That at least made them vulnerable.

He sprinted up to the first blast barrier. Automatic-weapons fire ripped over his head as he dashed to the second. Another RPG streaked out of the darkness and slammed into one of the bladders, briefly turning night into day.

He flattened himself against the barrier, trying to get sight of the ANA uniformed men. He picked off the furthest of the five he could see first. Seeing their brother fall, the rest hesitated — just long enough for Tom to hit each of them. The nearest, also one of the smallest, had just set down a heavy belt-fed machine-gun. Tom aimed and took him down before he could fire. But a second even smaller man, perhaps a boy, sprang forward out of the gloom and embraced his fallen comrade. Seconds later the boy had grabbed the ancient weapon and swung it in Tom’s direction. Bullets spewed out of it, peppering the wall behind him. The shooter could barely control it, but seemed intent on emptying the belt regardless. Tom raised himself to get an angle, and found the insurgent in his optic. It was clear now that he was no more than a boy. Remembering he had only a handful of rounds, Tom took a breath to steady his aim and fired a single into the figure, who slumped lifelessly against the concrete.

Now the airfield was alive with troops, pouring fire down on the remaining insurgents. Slow to react, the full force of the ISAF had now been brought to bear. It was as good as over.

Tom ran up to the two boys spread-eagled on the flight line. One was dead, the other wounded but conscious, on his back, his right arm trapped under him. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, the new ANA uniform stiff and several sizes too large, the old sneakers dangling off his feet split at the sides, the soles completely worn through. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder. On its way it had burst the breast pocket of his tunic, exploding a bag of nuts and raisins that were now scattered over his chest. He was saying something over and over. Isa, Isa.

Tom dropped to his haunches and addressed him in Dari. ‘Which way did you come?’ The boy didn’t move. His eyes were full of tears. Tom repeated the question in Pashto. ‘Which way?’

The boy tilted his head and glanced towards the East Gate.

‘Through the wire or through the gate?’

The boy coughed.

‘You need medicine. I can get you medicine. Just answer the question.’

The boy jerked to the left and brought out his right hand. The muzzle of an ancient Chinese QSZ 92 9mm pistol was pointing straight at Tom. You had to admire the kid’s persistence.

Tom jumped back and kicked out. The pistol flew out of the boy’s hand, just as the sound exploded behind him. For a fraction of a second Tom thought the pistol had discharged as it clattered onto the tarmac, the air next to his cheek displaced by the bullet’s journey. But the boy’s head jolted back, a three-inch crater where his left ear had been. The fatal bullet had come from behind Tom. He swung round. Three metres away, Qazi’s weapon was still aimed at the boy. He raised his eyebrows at Tom. ‘That was close.’

‘Why’d you do that? The kid was down.’

Qazi ignored the question. He came forward and took out a knife, then bent down and cut the straps of the dead insurgent’s backpack and pulled it from under him. But Tom’s gaze was concentrated on the dark stain on his right thigh, where he had seen him wiping his palm when they met by the gym.

Tom glanced at the knife, then back at the stain. And saw Dave’s lifeless face, the empty blue eyes, the long, seeping gash across his throat.

And then he knew.

Qazi pocketed the knife. Lifted the backpack and started to walk away.

‘Stop.’

Qazi turned slowly, a withering look on his face. Tom flung himself at the Afghan and they both slammed onto the ground and rolled. Tom heard the clink of the knife, saw it, lunged for it, grabbed it.

An American officer and two others rushed towards them, seized Tom and pulled him off, twisting the weapon out of his grip.

‘What the fuck is this?’

Tom shoved the American away and threw himself again at Qazi, taking him down in a rugby tackle as Qazi kicked back at him. As they struggled, Tom gripped the seam of the Afghan’s fatigues until the Americans leaped on him and wrenched him free.

Qazi stood motionless, his eyes boring into Tom’s. But all Tom could see was Dave’s face, his eyes gazing upwards and past him, the life in them gone. Qazi reached down slowly, picked up the knife and put it back in its sheath.