Fortress

7

A hard hot morning sun had just appeared over the blast barriers and was already training its unforgiving glare on Tom. He could feel the sweat trickling itchily downwards under the body armour that all personnel had been ordered to wear after the raid. On the surface it looked like just another day at the base. But underneath everyone was on edge. There had been no sleep. An acrid smog of burned rubber and fuel still hung in the air.

His body aching from head to toe, he found some shade under the awning stretched out over the front of the brigade commander’s Portakabin. A few feet away a Yank was balancing on his haunches, dark aviators and a whitewall haircut, sand-coloured cargoes, black nylon web belt and dark blue polo shirt under his armour. Had to be CIA.

‘You before me, sir?’

The spook said nothing, just looked at him.

Eventually the door opened and an orderly beckoned to Tom. As he went forward the Yank eased himself to his feet and followed. Tom frowned at him.

‘Don’t mind me, soldier. Just making sure that what needs doing gets done.’

The one-star British Task Force commander, Brigadier Kershaw, was bent over a mass of papers on his desk. Beside him a fan stirred the syrupy air. He waved Tom to a chair without glancing up.

The spook took a seat at the back of the room. Eventually Kershaw raised his eyes. He looked like a man shouldering more than his fair share of the world’s woes.

‘First of all, your quick action against the insurgents last night — consider it noted.’

‘It was all hands to the pumps, sir. I just did what I could.’

Kershaw frowned into the cup of black tea by his elbow: they were out of milk again. ‘However we have a problem. I don’t need to remind you, we’re under the operational command of the ANA now. ISAF’s role is purely to assist.’

Tom didn’t like where this was going. He took a deep breath and let it out as slowly as he could. A restraining voice somewhere in his burning head told him to hear out the one-star.

‘Let me remind you of just where we stand — and where you stand. Our political masters are looking for a smooth exit out of here, which leaves us in effect trying to put the genie back in the bottle. Incidents like this set us all back. Suddenly the bridges we’ve been building stone by stone between ISAF and the ANA go to Hell. This sort of thing saps Afghan morale and ISAF confidence. Assaulting an ANA officer — that has political implications, plays into the hands of all the sceptics back home. It’s not helpful and that is why you’re in front of me.’

Kershaw’s gaze flicked to the Yank seated behind.

‘The last thing ISAF, Whitehall and the White House want right now is yet another scrap with Kabul. So I’m afraid they’re taking rather a hard line on it.’

The Task Force commander’s frustration with what he was having to say was plain. His expression softened.

‘This is very delicate, Buckingham.’

But Tom was fighting a losing battle with his own anger. ‘Unlike Sergeant Dave Whitehead’s murder, sir. Nothing delicate about that.’

Kershaw reddened. ‘Sergeant Whitehead’s death is deeply regretted. Your comments on the matter have already been noted.’

‘Noted, sir?’

The brigadier slammed both hands on the desk, sending papers flying in all directions. ‘Don’t be an arse, Tom. Can’t you see I’m giving you an exit? Qazi is an ANA hero. He’s also a cousin of the ANA five-star in Kabul. Their fathers fought together with the Muj. When we get the hell out of here it’s the likes of him who’ll have to pick up the pieces. The fact is that, as you know, Sergeant Whitehead was killed by insurgents.’

Tom could feel his own face burning as well. For a moment neither of them spoke. The only sound in the room was the fan and the Yank’s foot tapping his chair.

‘Who let them in? Who got them past the sentries?’

Kershaw waved the question away. ‘All this will be examined.’

‘What are the media saying?’

‘They don’t have the story — and it’s staying that way.’

Tom felt a jolt of outrage course through his body. He fixed the one-star with a venomous glare.

‘Wind your neck in, Sergeant. As I said, I’m giving you an exit here. Do not fuck that up. You’re booked on the next transport to Brize.’

‘The fuck—?’ Tom couldn’t help himself.

Kershaw’s face was purple now. Again, his eyes flicked across to the American and back to Tom. ‘Carry on like this and you’ll need a new career.’

Tom got to his feet. The American opened the door and held it. Outside, a convoy of salvage vehicles was taking away the charred carcasses from the night’s inferno.

Tom looked at the American, his expression masked by the dark glasses. ‘After you. Sir.’

Deaf to his sarcasm, the Yank shook his head. ‘You Brits! Always so polite.’

As the American disappeared into the brightness, Kershaw coughed. ‘This isn’t my way of doing things. It came down from Kabul. Welcome to the snake pit.’

Tom reached into his pocket and took out a small plastic bag. He turned and placed it on Kershaw’s desk.

‘What’s this?’

‘A memento, sir.’

Inside was a scrap of bloodstained fabric.

‘A piece of Qazi’s ACU. You might want to get someone to check whose blood that is.’