Fortress

2

‘I’ve decided.’

Dave Whitehead peeled off his kit and let it drop onto his cot — M4, waistcoat stashed with extra rounds, Sig 9mm, Kevlar helmet, Gen 3 NVs, sat phone, sweat-sodden MTP, vest, socks and boots: it came off in layers until all that remained was the basic soldier in a pair of boxers featuring Stewie the homicidal baby from Family Guy.

‘Decided what?’

Tom Buckingham was only half listening as he steered his laptop round their quarters in search of the ever elusive Wi-Fi signal. The whole row of Portakabins had been plagued by glitches all week. He glanced at the time: 23.00. Six thirty in Hereford. Ten minutes to his Skype with Delphine. He needed to be ready, and alone.

‘Came to me in a flash while we were out there today.’

The screen burst into life. The BBC News Home page: Outrage at killing sparks nationwide riots. Nine dead, hundreds injured. Tom lowered the laptop onto the shelf under the window, checked the signal strength, clicked Skype onto standby and tried to absorb the news from home.

‘Hey, listen up.’

Something about Dave’s tone told him he’d better pay attention. He turned away from the screen.

‘I’m serious. When this ends, it’s time to get out.’

It was the start of their second sweltering month at Bastion, tasked with babysitting an Afghan National Army mission to lift a Taliban chief as he broke cover and crossed from the Tribal Areas into Helmand for a shura, a tribal meeting. They wanted him alive, so no taking him out with a drone. But the shura kept getting postponed. So they waited, rehearsed and waited some more. Today should have been The Day. But when they’d hit the safe-house the guy was supposed to be in, it was deserted.

Tom, already down to his vest, glanced in the mirror. Dave, behind, signalled to him to pay attention.

‘You know, bin it while I’m ahead.’

He had confided in him about leaving a few days ago, starting a new life, getting on the troops-to-teachers programme. Tom had thought it was a wind-up. He gestured at the laptop, his mind elsewhere. ‘Can this wait? I’m kind of on standby here.’

Dave, ignoring him, popped a can of Monster and poured it down his throat. ‘After all, I’m great with kids, aren’t I?’

Only last week, on an exercise with the ANA, Dave had covered himself in glory by pulling an eight-year-old boy out of the rubble that had been his home and delivering him into the arms of his frantic parents. When they’d gone back to see the family, Dave had taken a basketball he’d liberated from the same US Marines that now made up the vast majority of troops in Helmand, fixed up a makeshift hoop for the kid and shown him the ropes. Within minutes he was surrounded by ten more eager players.

‘Yeah, it’s a great idea. Now can you fuck off for a bit while I talk to Mademoiselle?’

Dave threw his head back, drained the dregs of his drink, tossed the can into the bin with deadly accuracy and lay back, wiping droplets of liquid from his blond stubble. Flung together by the SAS, they were planets apart. Tom, all blue chip and silver spoon, had seen pictures of Dave as a kid, a skinny, scruffy urchin with spindly legs, scabs on his elbows and big flappy ears. Removed from his drug-addicted mother at four, he had weathered every indignity the care system could heap on him, as he was bounced through a succession of homes and foster placements, his spirit undimmed, until the Army had thrown him a lifeline. There, he had blossomed, single-mindedly transforming himself into the fine fighting machine that now lay spread-eagled on the cot and scratching his ball-bag.

‘I mean, look at you, playing soldiers while Her Indoors waits in vain. When you gonna get your act together?’

Dave had a theory he loved to expound on about doing one thing at a time and had given Tom a hard time for saddling himself with a fiancée.

‘Tell you what,’ said Tom. ‘Just fuck off to the gym.’

‘I’ve decided. Don’t try to talk me out of it.’

‘There’s a new USAF one. They’ve got a whole rig of great kit in there, chest press, pec fly, gyroscopic dumbbells. An hour of those and you’ll sleep like a baby. With a nice clear head when you wake up.’

‘My head is clear.’

‘Sure, sure, I know. Their AC runs off its own genny. You’ll look cool and be cool. Now split.’

‘You sound like an ad for deodorant.’

‘I’ll catch you up, okay?’

Dave reared up and was on his way out of the door.

‘Where’s your weapon?’

He patted his holster.

‘I’m going to the gym, man — not patrol. Hey…’

Tom paused, his fingers on the keyboard.

Dave grinned. ‘You’re a lucky bastard, you know that?’

The door swung shut and he was alone.

Tom glared at the laptop, not relishing the upcoming communication. Skype seemed to be the worst of both worlds. He used to like to write letters. At prep school, every Sunday after chapel, they’d been made to. He’d listed the week’s academic achievements — that bit didn’t take long — then his various triumphs on the field. Dear Mum, I got two trys in rugby and got sent to the Head for fiyting Robbo only it was just play. Nothing broken so you don’t need to tell Dad. The ginger cake is all gone. Please send a bigger one this time if poss. Love from Tom. He’d carried on after he’d enlisted, deaf to the hoots of derision from his mates. But it was easier than phoning — no grief coming back at him.

He clicked on BBC News again, scrolled through pictures of a street of shops in flames, a mounted policeman, face bloodied, helmet gone. Even the ANA had heard about it, the interpreter raising an eyebrow at him at breakfast, as if to say, Welcome to our world.

Delphine would have something to say about all this.

He stared at his reflection in the window. A hundred metres away, he saw a small glow of light. It flickered once, then twice more — a lighter, perhaps. Maybe a cigarette would help. After a long abstinence he’d lapsed, then promised Delphine he’d stop. That had lasted about three days. A pair of Ospreys thundered overhead, landing lights off to deter enemy fire, yet plain to see from all the light thrown up by the base. It was huge: as big as Reading, its air traffic busier than Gatwick’s. Brits, Americans, Danes and the fledgling Afghan National Army were all here. The ANA were in charge now, the end in sight for the Coalition, though it didn’t feel much like it.

The aircon stuttered to a stop and, in a matter of moments, the room heated up to an uncomfortable level. Great. Fucking perfect.

The laptop came to life. Delphine was there.

‘Hey, babe.’ Seeing her lifted his spirits instantly.

‘Bonsoir, mon chéri.’

She blew him a kiss. He blew one back. Why did this make him think of prison visits?

‘You’ve caught the sun again.’

‘Hard not to — it’s up to forty-five.’

Neither of them had got the hang of this.

‘How’s your day going?’

‘Oh, you know. Same old.’

Her colloquial English was coming on. But it was clear something was wrong. She looked tired and drawn and, although she’d probably touched her face up for the chat, he could see her eyes were red from crying.

‘Are you okay?’

‘Tom, it’s not good here. I don’t like it, what’s happening — all this trouble, I don’t feel safe.’

‘It’s just people letting off steam, taking advantage.’ Instantly he felt the shallow gloss of his words. ‘There’ll be nothing like that where you are, trust me.’

Her shoulders rose and she let out a dismissive sigh. ‘You say that, but people right here in the bar, they’re saying terrible things about what should happen to the protesters. It’s all so ugly.’

Delphine was right. It was ugly, but the chances of her coming to any harm at the Green Dragon in Hereford were less than zero. The lads back at the Lines would see to that. He’d told a couple of them to look out for her.

‘Trust me, it’ll all die down. Stuff like this happens all over — this could be Paris or Lyon or Marseille.’ Now he could hear the impatience in his tone. Civil strife, ethnic tensions, tribal conflicts, you name it, he’d seen it — in Benghazi, Beirut, Kinshasa, Kirkuk. In Western Europe we don’t know we’re born, he felt like saying, but that was the last thing she needed to hear.

‘Why do they keep extending you? Tell them you want to come home.’

Now it was hitting them what different worlds they occupied, what it meant to be an army fiancée — let alone a wife, if they ever got that far. Had he misled her? She knew some of the wives back in Hereford and must have heard the gripes. This was his first long job away since they had got together. It had all happened so fast: just forty-eight hours’ notice. This was how it was going to be: she had to realize that.

‘It doesn’t work like that, babe. They give the orders. I do what I’m told.’

Her face disappeared from the screen for a moment. When it reappeared she was dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘I keep thinking how different it could have been.’

He didn’t need to ask what she meant. First there had been the Eurostar incident. She had been so brave, standing up to the hijackers, helping him defeat them. His respect for her then was total. But it had taken its toll on her — with flashbacks, nightmares and an understandable fear of tunnels. And then losing the baby, their baby. Their different responses to grief had opened a void between them. He knew all about loss. He could have written a book about it. But none of it was working for her.

‘Look, we’ve got the whole of our lives ahead of us. We can try again.’

It sounded weak and clichéd, but what else could he say? How could he comfort her, reassure her from a desert fortress more than three thousand miles away? The pregnancy had been a complete accident, parenthood something he hadn’t even considered. But he’d supported her all the way, even fancied himself as potential good dad material — when he was around. But it wasn’t to be.

He had dealt with more than his fair share of death: seen mates killed, shredded, vaporized, smashed to pieces so small there was nothing to bury. But watching your own child die as it was being born, and its distraught mother turn her face away from you in grief? There was no training for that.

‘Look…’ he began. The screen flickered, but he soldiered on. ‘Why don’t you go home for a bit, get away from all this? Find some…’ He’d been going to say ‘perspective’ but that would have sounded as if he thought she was being irrational. ‘Get some decent rest. Clean French air. Your mum’s cooking. Cassoulet and tarte Tatin. Mmm, fantastique.’

This time she couldn’t help smiling. He had only stayed with them once and had overeaten spectacularly. Her father’s expression had implied concern that a man with so little self-control should be allowed anywhere near live ammunition.

‘The pub can arrange cover, I’m sure, and—’

‘They have. Moira has found someone.’

‘So it’s already sorted?’ He tried to keep the dismay out of his voice. ‘Good! That’s — good. You need to get away.’

Then the line was gone. Her sad, perfect face was sliced and diced into pixels, then discrete blocks of colour that froze and slid away, like a surreal, digitized version of Jenga.

‘Fuck it.’

He grabbed his pistol and followed Dave out into the baking night.