Firefight

SIX

She had fallen asleep thinking of her brother. Thinking of the last time she had seen him, when his face had been so full of apprehension, his voice so full of urgency. 'You must flee, Latifa,' he had said. 'We must both flee. They have found out about me. It is only a matter of time before they come—'

And now, outside, the sun had set and all was dark, but night and day had no meaning to her in this place; they were just arbitrary markers that punctuated her suffering at regular intervals. She had been asleep for three hours — about the longest she ever managed before she was woken up by the cold or by her aching body. But it was neither of those things that roused her now. It was the sound of the door being unlocked — the sound that haunted her every living moment. She knew that whenever someone came through the door, something unpleasant was about to happen.

She was confused and disorientated in the dark, but gradually she became aware that there were men in the hut with her. Three, maybe four. As she stared around in fear through the veil of her burka, a light appeared at the door. Her eyes squinted with momentary pain as she saw the man with the scarred face in the doorway holding a flaming torch.

'Hold her down,' he said harshly.

Suddenly there were firm hands on her limbs. She screamed once, but then she found herself unable to make another sound as terror froze her throat. There were definitely four men holding her — she realised that as she was pressed firmly on to the hard earth. She tried to struggle, but the men were too strong.

Looking up she saw the one with the torch standing over her. 'Where is he?' he asked calmly.

'I have told you a thousand times,' she spat, 'I don't know!' Once more she tried to struggle; once more she was held down.

The man with the torch knelt beside her. He removed the thin shoes she was wearing, then deliberately lowered the burning flame and touched it to the sole of her right foot. She screamed in agony as he held it there for a number of seconds. When he removed it she was whimpering breathlessly, but she screamed a second time when he touched the torch to her other foot.

When he had finished, he spoke a single word to the other men and they released her, but by now she was too agonised and frightened to do anything other than curl up and sob.

Wordlessly, the men filed out of the hut. They closed the door behind them and, of course, locked it before walking away.

'You'd better give me the low-down on these guys,' Will told the CO as they walked along the corridors of Credenhill HQ towards the briefing room.

Elliott nodded. 'RWW, all three of them,' he said.

'Good,' Will grunted. RWW — the Revolutionary Warfare Wing, or the Increment to anyone in the know. A secretive group of crack troops, taken from the SAS and the SBS, deployed around the world to train terrorists — or 'freedom fighters,' as the British government preferred to think of them — and carry out hypersensitive, top-secret operations. The Afghan mujahideen, the Khmer Rouge in Cambodia and any number of other bands of guerrilla fighters had been turned into highly effective fighting forces thanks to the skills of the RWW.The Revolutionary Warfare Wing was also used to carrying out politically sensitive operations that would always be officially denied — a roundabout way of saying assassinations. When the head of MI6 had recently gone on the record saying that to his knowledge none of his people had ever carried out an assassination, he'd been telling the truth, because the Increment did their dirty work for them. These guys got deployed all over the world: Iraq, Afghanistan, South America. You name it, if it was a hot spot, the RWW would put in an appearance and its men were among the best the Regiment could provide.

There were other good reasons, though, for drawing his talent from the RWW and he suspected that Pankhurst had specifically asked for them. These soldiers would have undergone the most rigorous vetting of anyone in the British military. Their bank accounts would have been watched; their phones would have been tapped; Will had even heard that there was a policy of entrapment — putting temptation in the way of these guys or trying to trick them into revealing sensitive information to a supposed stranger who was really working for the military. If Pankhurst was worried about a leak, then giving Will a team from the RWW was a neat way of lessening the risk — they were as close to watertight as you could get.

'Frank Anderson's the most experienced,' said Elliott, interrupting Will's thoughts. He recognised the name and a face vaguely popped into his mind. 'Thirty-one years old. Frankly, I don't think he'll be thrilled taking orders from someone who's not currently in the Regiment, but he'll do it.'

'Are you sure?' Will demanded. 'I haven't got time to start breaking people in.'

'If I give him an order, he'll follow it,' Elliott said, confidently. 'And you could do with his experience. He's led a number of expeditions into the mountain regions of Afghanistan, so he knows the country and what you might be up against.'

Will nodded. 'OK. Good.'

'Mark Drew's a bit of a Regiment golden boy. Fucking quiet, fucking fit — endurance levels like I've never seen. Good behind the wheel of a car — not that you'll have much time for sightseeing.'

'Has he been deployed in Afghanistan?'

'No. But several operations in southern Iraq and South America. Trust me, he'll be an asset.'

'And the third one — what did you say his name was?'

'Kennedy. Nathan Kennedy. Popular, bit of a smart-arse. Geordie lad. Got a mouth on him and likes the sound of his own voice, but fucking sharp. He's been in and out of the Congo several times in the last couple of years.'

'The Congo? I didn't know the SAS was there.'

'There's a lot of things you don't know about the SAS, Will,' Elliott said pointedly. 'You've been otherwise engaged, remember? Anyway, Kennedy's very good — at least as good as the other two.'

'Anderson has a family, doesn't he?' Will asked, as nonchalantly as he could. He was hotly aware that two years ago he would never have asked that question. You go in, you do the job and you look after your mates, no matter what their personal situation.

'Does it matter?'

Will sniffed. 'No,' he lied. Truth was, his attitude towards such things had changed. The idea of taking a family man into the field of war was one that he suddenly had difficulty with.

'A young daughter. He wouldn't want me to know that I told you that, and he certainly doesn't expect any special treatment because of it. It's a strong team. For my money, there's just one thing about it that doesn't add up.'

Will raised an eyebrow. 'What's that?'

The CO stopped walking. 'You, Will,' he said bluntly. 'You've been out of it for two years. God only knows what your fitness levels are. You've been part of the Regiment for long enough to know that if you don't keep yourself sharp — '

'Don't worry about me, boss. I'll be fine. 'Will tried to sound confident, but he knew there was truth in what the Colonel was saying. He'd kept in shape, but there was nothing to guarantee that this would be enough. Christ, he hadn't even held a gun for two years. All the more reason to have a good team around him — he hoped that Anderson, Drew and Kennedy were as good as they sounded.

Elliott led them to a briefing room at the far end of the administrative building, one of several secure areas where operational details were discussed. Will knew that these rooms were padded with a soundproofing material and they had no windows to ensure that there was no line of sight into the room. Elliott nodded at the soldiers standing guard outside as they approached and the doors were immediately held open.

There were four men waiting inside. One was in camouflage trousers and shirt; the other three wore civvies. They were sitting around a large table, but all stood up as Elliott and Will walked in.

'At ease,' Elliott said, before turning to the man in military uniform. 'Major Hughes, this is Will Jackson. Will, Major Hughes has been briefed by Five to put your team together.'

Hughes shook Will's hand, before introducing the three men. He was a tall man — taller even than Will — with heavily greased hair combed over in a side parting. He looked almost old-fashioned, like a soldier in a black and white photograph from the First World War. 'Frank Anderson, Mark Drew and Nathan Kennedy.'

Will nodded at each of them in turn. It would have been surprising if he hadn't recognised three members of the Increment by sight and sure enough now that he was in the room with them, their faces were familiar. None of them were clean-shaven and Will understood why: a lot of the Regiment boys had taken to growing beards, as it helped them blend in to those parts of the Middle East where they were regularly deployed. Frank Anderson was broad-shouldered and square-chinned. His hair, clearly balding, was cropped short. No one could say he was a good-looking man. Mark Drew was smaller but just as stocky, with blond hair and flat, blue eyes. Nathan Kennedy was the most severe-looking of the three. His skin was tanned, his eyes brown and he had a gleam in his eyes that would have been cheeky had Will not known that he was a trained killer. Will had a vague recollection of a night a few years back when a few Hereford locals had been riling Kennedy in one of the town's pubs. Nathan Kennedy wasn't the type to let it pass and the civvies — four or five of them — had ended the evening with broken noses. Not exactly a guy with a long fuse, but useful in a fight.

'Can't get enough of the old place, eh, Jackson?' Kennedy asked, laconically. 'What's wrong — not getting enough skirt on civvy street? Thought you'd come and spend a bit of time with some real men, see if the pheromones rub off?'

Drew and Anderson smiled at Kennedy's comment, but Elliott didn't. 'Shut it, Kennedy,' he instructed.

'Right you are, boss,' Kennedy replied with a twinkle. He settled back in his chair and the three of them sat there, evidently reserving judgement on the man who was supposed to lead them into one of the most dangerous places in the world.

Will looked around. The room was fairly empty, with the exception of the table, a few chairs and an overhead projector pointed at a large whiteboard.

'Has this room been swept for bugs?' he asked Elliott.

The CO raised an eyebrow and Will knew why — he clearly wasn't used to being spoken to like that, especially not in front of his men.

'Of course it's been swept, Will. They all are, regularly. You know that.'

'Good,' Will replied. 'I'll need a different room.'

'I beg your pardon?' Elliott replied, his voice dangerously quiet.

'I said, I'll need a different room. I'm sorry, boss. What I have to say to these men is sensitive and I'm afraid I can't brief them in the first room you lead me to.'

Elliott and Will locked gazes and he was aware of the others eyeing each other uncomfortably.

'Are you suggesting somebody at Credenhill has ordered surveillance on this briefing room, Will?'

Will held his head high. He hated having to embarrass his old friend like this, but security was security. 'I'm not suggesting anything, boss. But I'll need a different place to brief them.'

His demand seemed to echo around the room and Elliott appeared unwilling to answer it. 'OK,Will,' he said finally, quietly. 'We'll ignore the fact that your absence from the Regiment has made you forget your manners.' He looked over at the Major. 'Take them to another briefing room,' he ordered.

'Thank you, boss,' Will said.

'All right,' Elliott replied gruffly. 'I'll have someone open up the foreign-weapons armoury for you.'

'And we'll need transport to Brize Norton in about an hour and a half.'

Elliott nodded, then without another word he strode from the room.

Major Hughes silently led the remaining four of them down the corridor to a second briefing room. 'I'm sorry, Major,' Will told him when they arrived. 'I'm going to have to ask you not to come in.'

The Major narrowed his eyes. 'It's not the way we do things around here, Jackson,' he said, waspishly. 'I've put this team together for you. I want to know what they're doing.'

Will looked about, then indicated with a nod of his head that the Major should step aside with him. The moment they were out of earshot, Will spoke quietly. 'My orders come from the Director General of MI5, Major Hughes,' he said. 'You can call him and check or you can do what I say. The end result will be the same — I'm going to brief these men on my own. I'm sorry if that makes you feel insecure, but I don't have time to fuck around avoiding stepping on people's toes. Now do you have a problem with that?'

Hughes looked back at him with unbridled dislike. 'No problem,' he replied.

'Good. 'Will turned to the three waiting men. 'Get inside,' he told them. They opened the door and disappeared into the room. Will followed.

This briefing room was much like the other — muffled and windowless. Will shut the door behind him, then turned to address the three SAS men, who stood in a line by the table.

'Right,' he said. 'First things first. There seems to be a bit of resistance to the idea of me giving orders around here. If any of you have a problem with it, now's the time to pipe up.'

None of the men gave any reaction.

'Good.' He walked up to Anderson — wasn't he the one Elliott thought he might have trouble with? 'You sure, Anderson?'

'The boss says we're to take our orders from you. That's good enough for me.'

Will nodded. 'Right then. Sit down and listen. We're leaving soon and there's a lot to get through.'

The men took their seats and Will started to speak. It felt weird — as if he had never been away — but he fell into it naturally as he repeated the plan he and Pankhurst had devised before he left Thames House.

'At 17.00 hours a C-5 Galaxy military transport plane will land at Brize Norton. It's an American transport, rerouted through the UK for the express purpose of ferrying us to the NATO base outside Kandahar in southern Afghanistan.' He looked at each of them for any sign of surprise or alarm. There was nothing, so he continued. 'Once we reach the base, we're going to be introduced to an Afghan informer. This man knows the whereabouts of an individual who has been abducted by a Taliban faction in the countryside. Our mission is to locate and extract the target and bring this individual back to the UK. Alive.'

'Do we have any idea of the target's current location?' Anderson asked.

'Nothing specific. The source is nervous about who he gives that information to. He'll be coming with us, so we need to be prepared for that.'

'What's the target's name?' Drew asked.

Will's eyes flicked to the door. 'I'll tell you that once we're on our way.'

The men nodded. Will scanned their faces for any flicker of dissent, ready to stamp on it if he saw it. But there was none.

'OK,' he continued. 'We need to get tooled up. Let's go.'

The foreign-weapons armoury was housed in a small brick building. There were large metal doors at the entrance which were normally locked by chunky padlocks, but as the four of them approached, Will could see that the place had been opened up. They filed quietly inside.

There was something reassuring about the armoury. It smelled comfortingly of gun oil, and metal racks lined the walls, displaying weapons from all around the world, or copies of them. This place housed every armament you'd ever need on a mission, neatly ordered and well maintained. MP5 sub-machine guns, AK-47s, a smattering of MI6s alongside its more modern replacement, the Diemaco C8 carbine, along with a huge number of handguns and sniper rifles. There was a large selection of suppressed weaponry and Will knew that much of the equipment in this particular armoury would be nonattributable — no serial numbers, nothing to give anyone a clue as to where it came from or, more importantly, who had been using it. On an officially deniable mission, an attributable firearm was like a fingerprint at a crime scene.

The armourer — no doubt a weapons technician attached to the Regiment from the REME — was waiting for them. His job was to keep track of all the weapons, make sure they were signed out properly and keep them clean and in good working order. What he would never do, however, was ask questions: it wasn't important that he knew why the weapons were needed, just that they were needed. A couple of years at Credenhill, maybe less, and he'd be on his way, so none of the SAS men felt any sense of comradeship with him. He was a gruff, no-nonsense kind of man. Serious. Responsible. Just what you wanted in the guy whose job it was to make sure your weapon didn't jam at the crucial moment. He nodded a curt greeting at the fourman unit as they walked in, then they went about selecting their weapons.

It was done with a cool detachment, a professionalism borne of respect for the firearms they were taking that could mean the difference between life and death. They selected four suppressed C8s, along with a number of scopes and a 40 mm grenade-launcher attachment. These were duly packed into a heavy-duty protective case for the journey, while Will picked out a Minimi 5.56 mm light machine gun. He hoped they wouldn't have to use it, but if the situation demanded it, this gun had an effective range of 800 metres and was capable of a thousand rounds a minute. Once the Minimi was packed away, they each selected a Sig 226 pistol. Will also took a Sig 230 — smaller, less conspicuous, it could be hidden under civilian clothing without a noticeable bulge. Boxes of armourpiercing ammo were added to the requisition, as well as a stash of fragmentation grenades and phosphorous grenades, then each man carefully signed the forms the armourer gave them.

Once the weapons had been requisitioned, they needed to gather the rest of their equipment. They would wear civilian clothes as far as the NATO base in Kandahar; once there, they would find themselves some local clothes. Once they got out into the countryside, however, they would need cold-weather gear. Into their rucksacks they carefully folded Goretex jackets and pull-on snow suits. As a matter of routine, they each stowed away a Sat phone that would enable them to make encrypted calls from anywhere in the world. Before he had left Thames House, Pankhurst had told Will the Americans had given a promise of air support once he was on the ground. Nice gesture, but Will knew they couldn't rely on it if things turned nasty. Still, it was a comfort to have them, even though Will knew that if it came to the point where he needed air support, it would probably be too late. Finally, they each stowed a set of night-vision goggles. If they conducted their mission under cover of darkness, NV would be invaluable.

By the time they had gathered their equipment together it was gone two o'clock. It would take a couple of hours to get to Brize Norton and as they walked round to the front of the main building they saw a vehicle pull up and wait. It was a standard white minibus — the sort of thing you might expect a scoutmaster to be in charge of — and the driver was dressed in civilian clothes, although Will knew he was Hereford through and through. Steve Elliott was waiting by the minibus, his face unreadable as they approached. He indicated to Will that he should step aside with him.

'I don't like not knowing what my men are doing, Will,' he said, once they were out of earshot. 'I know we're both following orders and I know I don't need to say it, but be careful, OK?'

Will nodded.

'And good luck. I want to see you all back here very soon.'

'You will, boss,' Will replied, quietly. 'You will.' He turned back to his unit, nodded at them and together they climbed into the back of the minibus.

The case of weapons was already waiting for them on the floor, tucked well out of sight of any casual observer, and as they drove out of the heavily guarded gates to RAF Credenhill, they looked for all the world like a bunch of mates going on a trip together.

Inside the bus, the lads chatted calmly. 'You heard about Stevens?' Drew asked no one in particular.

'Aye,' Kennedy replied. 'Out on his fucking ear. Sounds like he went to the bank one time too many.'

Will's face must have registered his confusion. 'Andy Stevens,' Kennedy explained. 'You know him?'

Will shook his head.

'No, you probably wouldn't. Only been with the Regiment a year or so, silly fucker.'

'What'd he do?'

'He was out in Baghdad. Some of the lads were helping transport fucking great palettes of Yankie dollars, which they were sending out there to help rebuild the ragheads' economy. Course, he couldn't resist helping himself, could he? Would've got away with it, too, if some bird at that bank in Hereford hadn't noticed he was coming in every other day to change several thousand dollars.'

'How much did he take?' Will asked.

'No one knows. Enough to get him a fucking court martial, though. Shame — quite liked the lad myself. Bit of a wanker, but if I had a problem keeping the company of wankers, I wouldn't be here, would I?'

The others smiled and the conversation moved on. Will listened to them as they discussed the latest Hereford gossip and the stories they'd heard on the news — anything apart from the job in hand. But when there was a lull in the conversation, Will knew they would be mentally preparing themselves, going through the salient details of the mission in their heads. Anderson, Drew and Kennedy showed no signs of nerves — just a quiet, determined detachment, a confidence that they would be able to get the job done.

Deep down, Will wished he could share in that confidence. Forty-eight hours ago he had been a nobody, just some waster in the pub filling his time with whatever best numbed his grief on that particular day. Now he felt he had a purpose and he started feeling the hot anticipation that always used to surge through him before a mission. It was tempered, though, by an uneasiness, a self-doubt. Steve Elliott had been brutal in his assessment that Will might not be up to the job, yet he hadn't said anything Will didn't feel deep down. But the confidence of the others was reassuring.

He tried to put those doubts from his mind and focus on the task ahead.

There was a lull in the conversation. Will turned to Anderson. 'You've got a kid, right?' he said.

Anderson looked surprised that Will should have brought it up. 'Yeah,' he said, warily.

'How old?'

'Nearly three.'

'Looking forward to Christmas, I'll bet.'

Anderson smiled the smile of an indulgent parent. 'Yeah,'

he said quietly. 'She is.'

Will nodded and for a moment an image of his own daughter flitted through his head. 'We're going to make sure you're back for her.'

The three other men stared at him in mild astonishment and Will felt a flush of embarrassment rise to his face. What the hell had made him say that? He knew full well that that kind of talk before an operation was strictly out of bounds. These guys didn't even want to entertain the notion of failure and Will knew that Anderson had not even considered the idea that he wouldn't be back home for Christmas.

It wasn't that they were blasé, it was just that they knew that full confidence in their own training and ability was their best friend.

Kennedy broke the uncomfortable silence that followed. 'You said you'd give us the name of the target once we left Hereford,' he reminded Will.

Will sniffed. 'Her name is Latifa Ahmed.'

Surprise registered on Kennedy's face. 'Her name? It's a woman?'

'That's right,' Will said, flatly.

'Easy, tiger,' Drew said to Kennedy with a smile. He looked over at Will. 'Our Nathan's got a bit of a reputation,' he said. 'Pulled pigs in fifteen countries at last count, or was it sixteen?'

'Seventeen, actually,' grinned Kennedy, and Will was relieved that his fuck-up of a moment ago seemed to have been forgotten.

'She'll slow us down,' Anderson noted more soberly. It clearly wasn't a complaint; just an observation.

'Probably,' Will agreed. 'And she's being held captive by Taliban extremists, which means she won't be in the best of health. But from what I know about her, she's pretty tough. And she'll want to get away from that place as much as us.'

'You're under instructions from Five, right?' Drew piped up.

'That's right.'

'So what do they want with her?'

Will couldn't say too much, but he knew that if the unit thought he was keeping too much from them, it might engender bad feeling. 'She has information about a possible terrorist strike against London,' he said evasively, and the three of them seemed to accept that.

'Fucking ragheads,' Kennedy murmured, and the minibus continued to speed down the motorway.

Night started to fall and by the time they reached Brize Norton it was pitch black. Word of their arrival had clearly preceded them and the minibus was allowed to drive straight through and wait at the side of the runway. They arrived just in time to see the lights of the Galaxy emerge through the clouds in the distance. It was an impressive sight as it roared in to land, the engines of this massive transport plane filling the air all around, making it impossible for them to shout at each other, let alone speak. Will had been in enough of these aircraft — and planes like it — in the past, but he was always slightly taken aback by the sheer size of them when seen close up. The Galaxy had a wingspan of almost seventy metres and housed a cargo department nearly forty metres long. As soon as it came to a halt, the engines whirred to a silence and a fleet of refuelling vehicles drove up to it to start replenishing its tanks, while Drew and Kennedy flung open the back doors of the minibus and carried the weapons case out on to the tarmac.

A uniformed man descended from the cockpit of the plane. He walked briskly up to the unit and gave them all a cursory nod. 'You're our passengers, I take it?' he shouted in an American accent.

'That's us,' Will replied. 'How long before we're airborne?'

The pilot looked back over his shoulder. 'As soon as we're refuelled.'

'Do you have any passengers other than crew?'

The pilot shook his head. 'No,' he replied. 'Just cargo. There's seating on the top deck.'

Will nodded, pleased that the pilot hadn't seen fit to ask them who they were or what they were doing. It was often the way in situations like this. Clearly someone had told the yanks not to ask too many questions. Drew and Kennedy picked up the weapons stash once more, and the four of them strode across the tarmac to the steps which led into the aircraft.

The Galaxy had two decks. The steps took them on to the lower one, which was packed full of equipment. Most of it was on enormous pallets, covered with plastic sheeting and held in place by cargo nets. It was impossible to tell what was on those pallets, but Will knew it could be anything from weapons to ammunition to food rations or clothes. At one end of the cargo deck he saw two military vehicles — five-ton trucks, they looked like — and a couple of loadies were milling around them, checking they were secure. At the cockpit end of the cargo deck was a flight of metal stairs. Will and his men headed straight for these and carried their weapons case on to the upper level.

It was deserted. There was seating for perhaps seventy people and the chairs faced towards the rear of the aircraft rather than the front. They all took seats in the front row, but spaced themselves out so that they had a couple of seats on either side of each other, then strapped themselves in.

Around them, the noise of the engines started to get louder. Another man appeared — the flight lieutenant. 'Takeoff in two minutes, guys,' he told them, before walking back to take his place up front.

The engines were screaming now and Will felt the aircraft shudder into movement. The lights on the deck dimmed and within a minute the plane was speeding down the runway and was airborne.

Will took a deep breath. He hadn't left British soil for more than two years. It seemed so surreal doing it now under these circumstances.

They stayed strapped in as the aircraft climbed steeply through the clouds; only when it started to level did Will unbuckle his seatbelt. The scream of the engines had subsided a little now, but it was still loud — Will had forgotten how noisy these military transport aircraft could be.

'I'm fucking starving,' he heard Kennedy say from a couple of seats away. The others grunted in agreement. Ahead of them, at the back of the plane, a grey metal microwave oven was fitted into the wall. Next to it was a cold cabinet, which Kennedy opened. He pulled out a cardboard container of frozen army rations, then blitzed it in the microwave. The smell of the starchy food hit Will's nostrils and it occurred to him that he hadn't eaten since his early breakfast in the café near Kate's house. He was hungry, he realised, and when Kennedy had removed his food from the microwave, Will went to get some of his own.

The army rations were plain, but hot and welcome. Will ate three of the little boxes of food — beef stew with dumplings, baked beans with sausage and a chocolate sponge with gloopy chocolate sauce — before his hunger was satisfied and the others also wolfed the rations down enthusiastically.

'We should get some sleep,' he told the others, and they all nodded. They delved into their rucksacks, each taking out a strong string hammock, which they hung from the side of the plane. Anderson came round with a small cardboard box of pills.

'I got these from the med centre before we left,' he announced, handing a tablet to each of them. Will didn't need to ask what it was — taking a sleeping pill was pretty standard procedure before a long flight and these were specially designed to ensure that you got a few hours of well-needed shut-eye, without the risk of waking up feeling drowsy. He put one on his tongue, felt the acrid taste in his mouth and swallowed it. Then, without another word, he climbed into his hammock.

It was strangely comfortable lying there in mid-air and the dirty, mechanical noise of the plane's engines started to become hypnotic. There was a small window by his head and as he lay there he looked out into the blackness, watching the light at the tip of the wing flashing on and off.

If a military man stops his career before the time is right, he risks wasting away into nothing. As drowsiness fell upon him, Will heard Pankhurst's comment echoing in his head. He hated admitting it to himself, but the Director General was right. Will had been wasting away in Hereford, but it had taken this to make him realise it. He realised something else, too. Dangerous though it was, he was looking forward to Afghanistan.

This was what he had been trained to do.

This was what he was meant to do.

And it was good to be doing it again.

With those thoughts going round his head and with sound of the aircraft's engines filling his ears, Will Jackson fell into a deep, dreamless sleep.