Strike Back

PROLOGUE

John Porter folded the telegram into the inside breast pocket of his olive-green combat uniform. He permitted himself a brief smile, then walked swiftly up the grey gunmetal stairs that led up to the deck of HMS Dorset. A stiff breeze was blowing up from the Lebanese coastline, and he could feel it catching his jet-black hair, thrusting it down into the bones of his face.

‘Baby Girl. Born 23.11, 11.9.89. 7lb. Sandy. Love Diana,’ the telegram had read. The words were already stencilled into his mind. My first kid, he thought to himself. Sandy. I can hardly wait to see the smile on her face when she lays eyes on her dad.

All I need to do is try not to bugger things up by getting myself shot in the next few hours.

He walked purposefully towards the rest of the unit. The Dorset had been anchored off the Lebanese coast for three days now, waiting for the spooks to assemble enough info for the mission to kick-off. A British businessman, from one of the arms manufacturers that racked up billions in vital exports every year, had been held in one of the brutal basements of Beirut for the last four months. There was no way the government was willing to negotiate with his captors: they were already armed to the teeth without handing over the sophisticated missile systems they were demanding for Kenneth Bratton’s release. So the government had done what it always did when the going got tough: called on the Regiment to sort out the mess. Their mission was to go in, and bring Bratton out. Preferably, though not necessarily, alive.

‘Congratulations.’

Porter’s eyes swivelled round. Major Chris Pemberton was standing only a couple of feet away. A tall man, with more lines chiselled into his face than was normal for a man in his late forties, he was smiling, but there were still traces of ice in his steely, grey eyes. He had a rich Yorkshire accent, and a scar sliced down the side of his right cheek.

Porter nodded. ‘Thanks, sir,’ he replied.

‘A girl?’

‘Called Sandy.’

‘Just as well,’ said Pemberton. ‘Girls love their dads. Always. Doesn’t matter what a useless old bugger you are.’

‘Is that …’

Porter could have finished the sentence, but he could tell the Major had already lost interest. He wasn’t here to swap tips on brands of nappies. A harsh wind was blowing in from the coastline, and a few miles across the horizon some blacklooking clouds were starting to swirl out across the sea. If they were going to fly in tonight, there wasn’t much time left. It looked as if a storm was brewing.

‘We can stand you down if you want to,’ said Pemberton. ‘We have backup.’

Porter paused. Stand down? Why the hell would he want to stand down? He had spent eight years in the Irish Guards, and seen plenty of contacts across the water, then, a year ago, he’d made his third request for a transfer to the SAS. When he’d been accepted into the Regiment, it was the best moment of his career. Now he was about to go on the first mission where real blood was at stake. He’d sooner toss himself over the side of this ship than stand down. This is what it had all been about.

‘Appreciate it, sir,’ he said tersely. ‘But I’ll be fine.’

Pemberton examined him closely, the grey eyes flickering across his face, scrutinising him for any sign of weakness. ‘We don’t like to send men out when they’ve got other things on their mind, and this is an important mission. We can’t afford any fuck-ups. You’re entitled to forty-eight hours leave when you have a kid, and if you want to take it, no one will think any the less of you.’

‘I’ll be fine.’

‘You’ve already proved yourself, Porter. You don’t need to prove yourself again.’

‘I said, I’ll be fine …’

Pemberton patted him on the shoulder. ‘Good man,’ he muttered.

Together they joined the rest of the unit. Steve, Mike, Dan and Keith were all far more experienced than Porter. Mike had only been in the Regiment two years, but the other three had clocked up fifteen years between them. They should know what they are doing, Porter reflected. And if they don’t, then God help us.

‘The mission is set for 2000 hours,’ snapped Pemberton. ‘There will be a full briefing in fifteen minutes.’

Porter could feel the adrenalin surging within him. It was only forty-eight hours since they’d been assembled in Hereford, and put on a plane to Cyprus. From there they were flown out here on the same Puma chopper that was going to take them straight into enemy territory in the next couple of hours.

‘Well done on the kid, mate,’ said Steve.

He grinned. A Welshman with a neat line in patter, Steve was the only other man on the unit with a wife and kids at home. He joked all the time about how he’d rather be back in the Falklands than pushing prams around Newport.

‘We can organise a nice little flesh wound, if you like,’ said Keith. ‘Get you a few months in hospital chatting up the nurses, and by the time you get back, you’ll have missed all the nappies.’

A Londoner with an easy charm, Keith was the joker of the pack, and always the first of them to organise a night out. Porter laughed. But there was no time left to mess around. The five-man unit trooped below deck to the Dorset’s ops room. Pemberton was standing in front of a white screen, tapping the palm of his right hand with a well-chewed pencil. At his side, Porter noticed a guy of maybe twenty-seven, twenty-eight, with dark blond hair, the colour of biscuits, and a nonchalant cocksure manner that Porter didn’t much care for. ‘This is Peregrine Collinson,’ said Pemberton. ‘Irish Guards. He’s going to be observing us today.’

‘Call me Perry,’ Collinson interrupted. His voice rang out around the tiny room, at least a couple of decibels too loud. We’re just having a chat, mate, Porter thought. You’re not addressing a battle-ready battalion.

‘I’ll call you Gloria,’ muttered Steve.

Porter was already laughing when he heard Pemberton snap: ‘What was that?’

‘Glorious, sir, glorious,’ said Steve.

Pemberton ignored him. ‘I know we don’t usually include men from any other regiments on our briefings, but Perry is a fine soldier, and I’m sure he’ll be able to help out.’

There was no time for any of the men to worry about him: they had just a few minutes to memorise their instructions. After weeks of patient detective work, the Firm had identified the address where Bratton was being held. Hostages were moved every eighteen to twenty-four hours to reduce the chances of their location being revealed, usually using Hezbollah operatives posing as taxi drivers. Agents inside Beirut had managed to turn one of them: the man was desperate for money, and grateful for the fifty thousand dollars handed over in crisp, clean notes. In return, he’d been given a Coke tin with a satellite tracking device hidden inside it. When he had a fix on the hostage’s location, he crushed the tin to activate the tracker and dropped it in the gutter outside the house. He’d left it there two hours ago, and ever since then the Firm had known precisely where Bratton was. But they had to go in tonight. By morning, he could have been switched to another location.

Intelligence reckoned there were twelve Hezbollah guards, on two rotating shifts of six men. There was backup not far away, so they would have to move fast. Thirty minutes was the maximum window from touchdown to evacuation. Any longer than that and they would be overrun by the enemy. The plan was what they’d trained for over the years. Standard hostage-evacuation procedure. A Puma chopper would take them in, and drop them onto the roof of the building. They would go in hard, kill everything that wasn’t nailed down to the floor, then get the hell out. If anything went wrong there was a backup unit waiting on the ship. They had all done it at the killing house back in Hereford a dozen times. There was no need to change the formula now. Just make it work.

‘One word of warning,’ said Pemberton, his voice turning grave. ‘The Firm reckons its man inside Hezbollah has put this marker outside the right building but you never know if you can trust any of those bastards. Beirut is the most dishonest, double-crossing few square miles of real estate in the world. They could have turned our informant, or he might have been double-crossing us all along. Just be prepared to have a welcoming party waiting for you.’

His eyes rested for a brief moment directly on Porter. ‘So you could be walking straight into a trap. The moment you smell anything fishy, don’t stop to investigate. Shoot your way clear of danger then get the hell back to base. The last thing we need is five British soldiers taken prisoner in that hellhole, and we won’t be able to do a damn thing to help you if that happens. Remember, just living to fight another day is a victory in itself. So good luck, and give them hell.’

Porter was next to Steve as they climbed up towards the deck. The Puma chopper was revved up and ready to go. Before lift-off, each man was responsible for his own kit. Porter ran a quick inventory of his pack. Two stun grenades, two regular grenades, a pistol, a knife, a first-aid kit, a water bottle and, most important of all, an M16 assault rifle, with two hundred rounds of ammunition.

They moved out swiftly along the metal staircase, twisting through the narrow spaces that led up to the metal deck. It was already two minutes to eight: the mission was scheduled to kick of 2000 hours. Porter heard a snapping sound behind him, then a muffled cry. As he turned round, he could see Dan keeling over, his face contorted with pain. Porter had seen that face a dozen times playing football. He’s ripped open a tendon, he thought. ‘You OK?’ he said.

Dan was trying to stand up, pushing himself towards the staircase, but tears of pain were streaming down his face every time his foot touched the ground. ‘It’s no bloody good,’ hissed Steve. ‘You’re useless like that.’

‘I’ll be all right.’

‘Sod the heroics, mate,’ growled Porter. ‘You’re sitting this one out.’

‘I’ll take his place,’ said Perry, standing at Porter’s side.

Porter turned to look at him. ‘This is a Regiment job, mate,’ he said. ‘Get yourself down to Hereford and pass the selection test, and then we’ll consider you.’

Pemberton had already joined them. He was looking from Porter, to Steve, then across to Perry. There was a frown creasing up his forehead. Not surprising, thought Porter. One minute to take-off, and we’ve screwed it up already. ‘You’re a man short,’ he said.

‘We’ll be fine as we are,’ said Mike.

‘You need the men,’ said Pemberton.

‘Get one of the backup guys,’ said Steve.

Pemberton shook his head. ‘They’re too far away.’

He glanced at Perry, as if he was assessing the man’s character. ‘You’re in,’ he snapped. ‘Now the lot of you should be on that chopper in thirty seconds.’

Porter started running. Within seconds he was out on the open deck. ‘I can’t believe we’ve some fucking Rupert coming with us,’ snapped Steve. ‘I reckon we just tip the snotty-nosed little git out into the Med.’

‘Who the hell is he?’ asked Porter.

‘His old man was a general, Daniel Collinson,’ said Steve. ‘Then he made a second career for himself in the City. His godfather’s Sir Arnold Langham, used to be at the Ministry of Defence. Collinson knows where all the strings are and how to pull them. The bloke has got more connections than bloody British Airways. Doesn’t mind using them either.’

The chopper was revved up, and ready to fly. Porter climbed inside, pushing his back to the machine’s steel frame. Steve, Mike and Keith were squeezed in next to him. Perry was sitting a few feet away. As the chopper soared upwards, Porter could feel a giddy moment of weightlessness. He looked into Perry’s eyes, wondering what he could see there. Fear, maybe? No. It was contempt. For the lads or for the enemy, it was impossible to tell.

The roar of the Puma’s blades was deafening. Each man had a two-way radio tucked inside his helmet, allowing him to receive instructions from the pilot. Nobody was speaking. In the moments before a mission kicked off, nobody ever spoke. Each man needed a few minutes of silence to settle himself, and to make his own peace with the certain knowledge that although there was a decent chance of coming back alive, the odds weren’t what any sane man would accept.

‘As Sir Winston Churchill said on the BBC, in July 1940,’ started Collinson, speaking over the radio so that his words were delivered crisply to each man on the chopper, ‘“This is a war of the unknown warriors; but let all strive without failing in faith or in duty, and the dark curse of tyranny will be lifted from our age.”’ He paused. ‘I just thought we should remember that in the next couple of hours, and maybe draw strength from it.’

Steve rolled his eyes. He took off his helmet, and pulled out the headphones embedded inside. ‘Funny, can’t hear a sodding thing,’ he said, shouting to make himself heard over the din of the engine. ‘Bloody kit must be on the blink already.’

The Puma had rolled high into the air as it approached the coast, but now it was dipping low, hugging the ground, as it flew over the docks, and took them straight into the heart of the city. By staying as close to the ground as possible, the chopper would be impossible to detect on radar, and a lot harder to hit with a missile launcher: the enemy had no time to get it in their sights before it had disappeared from view. But it made for a stomach-churning ride. Porter had done it a couple of times in Ulster, flying low over dangerous border country when it was controlled by the Provos, and he’d learnt not to bother eating anything in the few hours before a mission. It just ended up on your shoes. Glancing around, he could see Steve and Keith hanging on to the side of the machine, their expressions grim. And glancing across at Perry, he noted with just a touch of satisfaction that the man was holding on to his stomach. You’re going to be a bloody liability on this gig, mate, he thought to himself.

‘Twenty seconds, twenty seconds,’ shouted the pilot over their headphones.

The chopper shook violently as it dropped the last few feet out of the sky. The pilot knew exactly where the house was: the Coke tin in the gutter was sending out a signal powerful enough to guide him right home. But he was flying low now, skimming right through the streets, at roof level. Any higher, and it would give an opponent a chance to lock onto the Puma with a rocker launcher. Suddenly the chopper lurched violently upwards, and Porter could feel his stomach heaving. It shuddered then hovered in the air.

Porter gripped his M16 tight to his chest. Lights were flashing on the Puma, and the roar of the engine as the hatch opened was deafening. ‘Go,’ shouted Steve. ‘Bloody go.’

Four sets of ropes were tossed out of the side of the Puma. With his legs kicking across the metal, Porter pushed himself out. Steve went first, then Porter, then Mike and Keith. Collinson was hanging back, Porter noted. A cloud of dust was shooting straight up into the sky as the chopper hovered a foot above the building, creating a brilliant, illuminated light that made it impossible to see anything. Porter gripped hold of the rope, and slipped down it, then threw himself down hard onto the roof of the building.

‘Move up,’ shouted Steve, his voice raw and hoarse.

They had practised this manoeuvre a hundred times back at the killing house. Go in hard and fast. Maximum speed and maximum aggression. The tactics were settled. But it was always different in real life. Back at base, the opposition was just pretending to kill you.

They had landed on a flat roof, with a single doorway leading down inside the two-storey building. Steve and Mike had already shot the door open, and the two men were fearlessly leading the way. Porter ran after them, his ears cocked for the first round of gunfire that would inevitably greet them, and weapon cocked tight to his chest, his finger poised on the trigger, ready to fire. Collinson was lagging a couple of yards behind the pace.

‘Take out, take out,’ Steve shouted.

Porter dropped to his knees as soon as he hit the first-floor landing. He could see the man clearly enough: a solitary figure, swathed in black robes, with an AK-47 tucked into his chest and dark glasses covering his eyes. Pressing the trigger on his M16, Porter loosed off a barrage of fire. At his side, Mike and Keith had done the same. A lethal hailstorm of bullets was biting chunks out of the bricks and mortar. Enough of it lodged into the chest of their sole opponent to send him crashing back against the wall, blood spurting from a dozen different wounds, and a pitiful moan erupted from his lips as he clung miserably on to the last few seconds of his life.

Steve kicked the body out of the way, affording it the merest glance to make sure there was no more breath left in it. The house was a simple, flat-fronted concrete structure, and it was only the intelligence reports that told them it was the front for an underground complex of bunkers. Another man was already running into view. A burst from their assault rifles quickly finished him off. Another bullet-ripped corpse lay in front of them. Porter could feel the excitement rising within him, making him stronger as each second passed.

With a rapid burst of fire, Keith and Mike had kicked their way through to the ground floor of the building. There was a simple square room, measuring twenty feet by twenty-five, with a couple of motorbikes stored in one corner. It smelt of soldering irons and diesel oil. To the back, there was a staircase, leading downwards. A pale light was snaking its way up to the surface. Porter paused for a moment. There was a brief, eerie silence as the guns stopped their murderous fire. He looked left, then right. Suddenly there was cry, followed by a burst of fire. Porter could feel a chunk of the wall right next to him being cut open by bullets. He dropped to his knees and squeezed the trigger on the M16. He didn’t even know what he was firing at until he saw his assailant keel over.

‘How many have we killed?’ he barked.

‘Three, maybe four,’ said Steve. ‘But there must be more of the bastards.’

Porter walked towards the staircase. They could be certain there would be more Hezbollah fighters downstairs.

‘Stun grenades,’ muttered Steve.

Both men unhooked the oval devices from their ammo belts, pulled the cords, then tossed them down into the stairwell. There was a delay of three seconds, then the muffled sound of an explosion. The blast of the grenade unleashed a wave of heat, followed by a rolling cloud of gas that would temporarily disable anyone who encountered it. In the two minutes it bought them, the unit had to get their man.

‘Let’s go,’ shouted Steve.

Behind him, Porter could hear the sound of puking. At the side of the room, Collinson had just thrown up. He was leaning against the wall, looking down at his vomit in shame, clutching his chest as he tried to recover his breath. ‘You OK, mate?’ said Porter.

‘Bloody fine,’ snapped Collinson.

‘You don’t look it.’

‘I told you, I’m fucking OK,’ said Collinson.

‘You can stay here if you —’

‘Leave the fucking bed-wetter,’ shouted Steve. ‘We’re going down.’

Mike, Keith and Steve had already started to descend the staircase. Their boots were rattling across the bare concrete, sending a ripple of echoes resounding through the enclosed space. Porter followed swiftly in their wake. At the bottom of the stairs, there was a narrow corridor that stretched for twenty feet both left and right, with two doors in both directions. One man was lying unconscious on the floor, blood streaming from his nose: he had been knocked out by the smoke from the stun grenade. It was still filling the room with a noxious, brutal odour. A couple of pale light bulbs were filling the room with an eerie glow that struggled to break through though the fumes. With one swift movement, Steve emptied three rounds of ammunition into the skull of the man lying at his feet, shooting his brains out. The corpse twitched on the impact, and a chunk of broken skull bone skidded out across the concrete, but in less than a second the corpse had stopped moving.

‘Two men left, two right,’ shouted Steve.

His voice reverberated around the corridor, and was still ringing in Porter’s ears as he peeled right and started striding through the sealed concrete passageway. His M16 was cocked, as both he and Steve edged their way closer to the first doorway. They had already worked out the standard operating procedure back on the boat. Porter would kick the doors down, and Steve would stand behind him ready to shoot anything that moved. There was no need for either man to say anything.

From the corridor behind him, Porter could hear the rattle of gunfire, and then the sound of a man screaming. Without pausing to think, he held his rifle in his left hand, balanced himself, then threw his entire weight into the wooden doorway. As it flung open, Steve was already kneeling down at the entrance, his gun held in his arms. It took just a fraction of a second to establish there was no hostage inside, and the decision made, Steve loosed off a volley of fire. The bullets splattered around the ten-by-ten room, taking down the two guards who were still trying to recover from the fumes of the stun grenade. Neither man knew what had hit them: before they had time to reach for their own weapons, their lungs had been perforated with bullet wounds, sending both of them collapsing to the ground.

They were solid, trained opponents, noted Porter: they were keeping their discipline, and trying to regroup, but they had been overwhelmed by the speed and scale of the attack.

Porter heard a movement. Up ahead in the corridor, another door was opening. He could see just a sliver of metal emerging through it. Porter recognised it at once. The muzzle of an AK-47. He waited, counting the beats of his heart as he allowed the sniper to expose just enough of himself to waste his own life. An inch, then another inch. It would take just an instant for the man to turn and fire. Porter waited, ticking off one second, then another. The hand was in view. Steadying the M16 cupped into his shoulder, Porter aligned the sights. The man was about thirty, with a slim build, and a scraggy, dirty beard. With a squeeze on the trigger, the bullets exploded from the barrel of the gun. The AK-47 dropped to the ground, as the shards of hot metal turned the hand gripping it into shredded ribbons of torn, bleeding flesh.

With a roar of controlled anger erupting from his lungs, Porter leapt forward, turning the M16 on the wounded man and finishing him off with a rapid burst of fire. Looking up, he could see Kenneth Bratton tied up to a chair that had been nailed to the floor. His arms were bound by rope that was cutting into his bare skin, and a gag had been stuffed into his mouth, and held in place with thick layers of plastic tape. He was wearing a black boiler suit, with staining down the front. In his eyes you could see the look of pure terror: the cringing, pleading fear of a man who knows he is clinging to life by the most slender of threads.

Behind him, there was one more guard. He was a boy, maybe no more than fifteen, with a shaved head and a week of untrimmed beard growing on his face. In his hand, there was a Browning BDA 380 snub-nosed pistol. And it was pointing straight at Porter. For a second, Porter could feel a cold sweat pass across his skin: he thought briefly about Sandy and reflected sadly that maybe he never would get to meet his new baby daughter. He’d had guns pointed at him before. But not with the same lethal certainty that they were intent upon killing him.

‘Easy, mate,’ said Porter.

The boy barked something in Arabic.

There was a hit of nervousness in his voice, Porter noted.

He’s just a kid. He’s bottling it.

Porter stood his ground, pointing his M16 straight at the man, his finger poised on the trigger. He could kill him in an instant. And yet he knew that in the same moment, the Arab could kill him. Or the hostage.

‘Drop the gun,’ snapped Porter.

‘Back, back,’ shouted the Arab.

He was gesturing wildly with the Browning. Porter kept his gun level with the boy’s head. Let him lose his rag, he told himself. Maybe then I can get a clean shot at the bastard.

‘Back, back,’ the boy shouted again.

His voice was ragged and there was sweat pouring off his face.

Porter could see his hand waving with the Browning first at him, then at the hostage. He was moving too fast to get a decent shot, he reckoned. His finger started to close on the trigger of the M16. Right then, a sudden burst of gunfire rattled through the room. The first bullet caught the Arab on the chin, smashing the bone, and snapping his head straight back. A flicker of flame lashed out of the muzzle of the Browning as the shot was fired, but it struck the wall harmlessly, loosening off a chunk of dusty concrete. The boy staggered backwards with blood already pouring from the lower half of his face. He was trying to cry out in pain but his mouth was smashed to pieces. Porter twitched the M16 towards him, and put one bullet straight into his skull. By the time the third bullet pierced his heart, he was already dead.

Ugly work, decided Porter. But you started it …

Steve was standing in the doorway, the smoke still smouldering out of the barrel of his M16.

‘Nice work,’ muttered Porter.

‘You’ve done all the heavy lifting, mate,’ said Steve. ‘Now let’s get the fuck out of here.’

With their Regiment-issued Spider knives, it took just a few seconds for the ropes that bound Bratton to his chair to be severed. His hands snapped free of their captivity, but with the tape still covering his mouth he was unable to speak. Porter grabbed his shoulder, helping him to his feet, but, like a man who has had his leg in plaster for a month, his nerves had grown rusty and he couldn’t find his balance. He was holding on to Porter’s shoulder as they navigated their way back towards the staircase. Porter could feel his pulse slowing down. The buzz of the adrenalin was starting to drain out of him as the immediate danger passed, and he felt empty and exhausted.

As they reached the end of the corridor, Mike and Keith were standing next to them. Collinson was at their side, some grime on his face. ‘Bloody good show, men,’ he said.

‘I didn’t see you lining up to take a bullet,’ snapped Steve. ‘Where the fuck have you been?’

Collinson was about to say something, but then stifled his words. As he glanced into his eyes, Porter could tell he had been humiliated, and the pain was stinging through him. ‘Let’s just get out of here,’ he said stiffly.

‘Leave it to some proper bloody soldiers,’ said Steve. ‘The fighting kind.’

He pointed to Keith to keep hold of Bratton, then started climbing the stairs. Mike and Porter followed him with Collinson bringing up the rear. As Porter pushed his head up into the main room, the way seemed clear enough. They just had to get back up to the roof, then the chopper could pick them up and they could fly home.

‘Clear,’ said Steve, as he looked out around the empty room.

Porter motioned down the staircase. Keith and Mike started helping Bratton up the staircase.

In the next instant, an explosion splintered the night air. Porter looked round, startled. His pulse was beginning to race again.

The grenade had exploded just inches from the front door. Steve had already fallen back, crouching down low next to the staircase. ‘Covering fire,’ he snapped at Porter.

Without thinking, Porter laid down a burst of fire in the direction of the doorway. One fighter appeared, and was killed instantly, then another walked into the same hailstorm of bullets. Both corpses were lying bleeding across the doorway. Then a grenade was tossed into the doorway, ten yards in front of him, and for a split second Porter could see it hissing. His blood was pumping. He could tell it was about to blow, possibly bringing the whole house down and killing all of them. He ran forward, grabbing hold of it, tossing it through the doorway and watching as it rolled back down the alleyway: two seconds later, it exploded, bringing down half a wall in a heap of rubble.

‘Take the doorway,’ shouted Collinson behind him.

Porter glanced back. With his right hand, Collinson was directing him towards the doorway. Straight into the line of fire.

‘Go, man,’ screamed Collinson, his face red with anger. ‘I’ll cover you.’

‘Since when were you in charge, you tosser?’ snarled Steve.

Moving forward, Porter crouched in the doorway. Amid the deafening roar of the explosion from the grenade, he took a second to catch his breath. His pulse was racing and his nerves were shredded. As his lungs filled with smoky, dusty air, the sniper eluded his gaze. It was only later that he realised the bastard must have been perched right in front of him. The shot came as if from nowhere, and the first Porter knew of it was when he felt the index finger of his left hand dropping clean away from his body. He looked down, at first unaware of the pain, then felt a strange tingling sensation running through his arm, like a mild electric shock. He was using his right hand to position the M16, looking through the murky night to see if could get a fix on his assailant. Then the second shot struck, hitting him just below the existing wound, and smashing the bone that connected another finger to his left hand. This time he felt it. The numbness and the shock had started to subside, and the pain was like a blistering explosion. His nerve endings were screaming from pain, and the gun dropped from his right hand. He could feel the blood pouring from the wound, but the tears already welling up in his eyes meant he could hardly see anything. Another shot blasted the concrete in front of him, and instinctively Porter fell back from the doorway, edging back inside the room.

That’s just a hand, he thought to himself. He could feel the desperation rising within him. There was no way of telling how many of them were out there, or how long the firefight would last. The next shot was going to be far worse.

‘Get up here,’ shouted Steve down the staircase.

Keith and Mike ran up the passageway, their guns blazing, but Collinson had already fallen back, dropping down the stairs where he was out of the line of fire. The assault was starting in earnest now. Three, four, then five heavily armed men started to charge the doorway, their guns cocked, their expressions grim with the determination of soldiers who had already prepared themselves to die. Steve was holding their position, managing to shoot a couple of guys as they approached the entrance. Keith took out another one, then the fourth and fifth, slicing into them with deadly fire, but there was still no sign of the attack abating.

It’s us against … how many? Porter wondered. A whole bloody city.

Suddenly, Porter could see something rushing towards him. Twenty feet away, it was coming at him from the left: it must have slipped in through a hidden window, or crawled up through the sewers. A small dark figure, no more than three and half feet tall, and weighing seventy or eighty pounds. A child. The bastards were using kids to break through the lines. There was what looked like an explosive charge strapped to his chest, and he was heading straight for Porter. Desperately, he reached for the gun that had dropped to the floor. Then he realised, he couldn’t shoot the kid without detonating the explosives. That’s what the bastards wanted. To blow the whole place up. The kid was reaching for his belt, just feet away from him now, searching for the cord that would take them all to meet their God. Porter lunged forwards, grabbing hold of the kid by neck, pushing him to the ground. He fell on top of him, smothering the child with his body, determined that even if the explosives did blow he would absorb enough of the force himself to save the others.

The black robe that covered his face fell away. Porter looked down. He was a kid, no more than twelve, with a slight, delicate build. Porter could feel his anger rising at the way the terrorists were using children to fight their battles for them. Why can’t they send in men to take us on? he asked himself. The boy’s eyes were a soft brown, and the expression of terror on his face suggested that whoever had persuaded him to die for his cause hadn’t finished the job. His mouth was twisted out of shape, with the lower lip looking as if it had been severed in half, and at first Porter thought it was just the fear, but then he saw the poor kid must have been deformed at birth.

Porter took the knife from his belt, and raised it a couple of feet into the air. He was about to plunge it straight into the boy’s neck, when his eyes caught him. He was looking straight at Porter. ‘Please,’ he said, in broken English, his voice croaking with abject fear.

Blood was dripping from Porter’s wounded hand, and the bolts of pain from the wound were jabbing up from his left arm and thumping straight into his chest. It was like having a hundred hammer drills boring into your body at the same time.

‘My, my …’

The boy was struggling for the words in English but they wouldn’t come. A burst of Arabic, frantic and desperate, erupted from his lips, then he subsided into the stunned silence that sometimes overwhelms even children when they are certain they are about to die.

Ten yards behind him, Steve and Keith were holding the line, using assault rifles to fight back another wave of Hezbollah attacks. Amid the din and roar of the gunfire, the hostage had bottled it, screaming his lungs out with raw fear.

Porter held the knife in his hand, his eyes flicking across the smooth skin of the boy’s neck as he searched for the windpipe he would need to sever to make the death as quick and painless as possible.

He lowered the knife into position, nicking the skin, and drawing a speck of red blood. He thought briefly of Sandy. How old was she now? Into her second day, allowing for the time the telegram had taken to reach the ship.

‘Fuck it,’ muttered Porter, the words wheezing through his exhausted lips.

He’s just a kid.

With his left hand, he ripped the explosives off the boy’s chest, flinging them to one side. He folded the knife into the palm of his hand, using it as a weight rather than a weapon. Tensing his shoulder muscles, he smashed his right fist into the side of the boy’s face. His deformed lips quivered, then he spat some blood and a broken tooth up into Porter’s chest. ‘Amiat al-Ikhwan al-Muslimun,’ he whispered. His eyes closed, and Porter could tell there was no fight left in him, but he punched again, and then again, draining the last few ounces of consciousness from him. Slowly, he lifted himself from the boy’s body. You’ll take at least three hours to wake up from that, mate, he thought. But you’ll live, at least. Maybe even find something better to do with your life.

In front of him, Steve and Keith had dealt with the latest wave of attacks. The firing had subsided long enough for them to rush up towards the roof and the Puma. ‘Get out to the chopper,’ shouted Steve. ‘We’ll lay down the covering fire.’

‘I’ll stay and fight my way out of here with the rest of you,’ said Porter gruffly.

Steve took two paces forward, standing so close Porter could smell the sweat and grime dripping off his face. ‘You’re fucking wounded, you tosser.’

Porter was clenching his left hand. The pain was aching, and the blood was still dripping from the two stumps where his fingers had once been. He could feel the strength bleeding out of him. ‘I can hold on until we get the hostage back to the chopper.’

With a flicked shake of his head, the anger was evident in Steve’s eyes. ‘You’re wounded, and we have to get the hostage out. We’ll put down some covering fire, and keep the Hezbollah bastards back. No one gives a fuck whether we get shot, but if we lose Bratton then we’re all in the shit. Now run like fuck, get on that chopper and get back to the ship, and there’s a chance the medics can still save that hand. Tell the pilot to call in the backup, and we’ll get out of here as soon as it’s safe.’

‘My hand —’

‘Bloody move, man,’ snapped Steve. ‘This is the Regiment. We get paid to fight and win. Not to lose a hand, and spend the rest of our careers behind a desk because we’re too sodding stupid to know when to clear out.’

Porter paused. He was about to speak, but he could see that Steve was already telling Keith how they could make certain the building was safe enough for the chopper to drop down onto the roof.

He held tight to his gun, then glanced up at the staircase. Bratton was standing right next to him: the man was shaking with fear, and his nerves were so shot he could no longer speak. Porter’s feet were pounding against the concrete as he started running. Behind him, he could hear one shot ring out, then another. He dragged Bratton with him, up one flight, then up the second, before bursting onto the open roof. Down below he could see the rest of the unit laying down more fire to keep their attackers at bay. Up ahead, he could see the chopper hovering a few feet above the roof. Within seconds, he had covered the last few remaining yards, and grabbed hold of the Puma’s doorway. He pushed the screaming Bratton through the open door, and flinging himself onto the floor, he shouted to the pilot to take him back, then unhooked a first-aid kit from the floor of machine. As the Puma lifted up into the sky, and started to soar over the city and out towards the sea, Porter found the disinfectant. He winced in pain as he splashed it over the raw, stubby mess where his fingers had once been. If he didn’t clean the wound soon, he knew there was a chance the thing might have to be chopped off at the wrist.

And the Regiment has no use for a bloke with only one hand.

Porter walked slowly from the operating theatre. The antibiotics they had pumped into him had made him woozy, and the local anaesthetic injected into his arm and chest left him numb and dopey. It had been a terrible hour, but at least the worst was over now, he told himself. After being dropped down onto the Dorset’s deck, Bratton had been led away, still shaking and sobbing with fear, and he’d been rushed down to the medics, who quickly concluded they could save the hand, but only if they cut through the remaining flesh and bone and reduced both missing fingers to nothing more than stumps. There was an operating theatre on board, but he’d probably be sent on to Cyprus at daybreak to get some more treatment. ‘If you’d kept the fingers we could have had a go at sticking them back on,’ said the doctor with disturbing cheerfulness as he sawed through what remained.

‘Yeah, well, some Arab buggers were lobbing grenades at us,’ growled Porter. ‘So there wasn’t really much time for looking around for any bits of your body that might have been shot off.’

In total, the operation had taken no more then twenty minutes, and the doctors assured him he should be fine so long as he kept it clean, and took some heavy duty antibiotics for a couple of weeks. He’d been lucky, they told him. The wound had staunched quickly enough for him not to lose too much blood: any more and he’d have passed out.

No point in signing up for the Regiment if you are going to complain about getting hurt, Porter told himself as he climbed the stairs back towards the deck. It had been that tosser Collinson’s fault for sending him up to the doorway, but those were the breaks. In combat, stuff happened. You just had to live with it.

He looked out at the sea. Taking out a packet of Rothmans, he cupped his hands against the wind, and lit a cigarette. He’d promised Diana he’d give up when she got pregnant, and had managed not to smoke at all on his last leave, but he knew the nicotine would help to dull the pain that would inevitably come raging back once the anaesthetic wore off.

Lucky I don’t hold the fag with my left hand, he grinned to himself as he chucked the ash into the sea swelling up around the side of the ship. With luck, it shouldn’t hurt his career too much. There were plenty of guys in the Regiment who’d lost fingers, but if they could still hold a gun straight, it didn’t count against them. So long as it didn’t disable you, a wound could even help you get ahead: it showed you could take the punishment.

He heard the chopper first, its engine growling out over the sea, then saw its lights. It was flying low, skimming over the waves, before gaining altitude as it came in for a landing on the Dorset’s deck. Porter glanced at his watch. It was now just after ten at night. They’d set off two hours ago for the ten-minute flight. They had a maximum half-hour window to complete the mission. Porter had been on Lebanese soil for only twenty minutes. They should have been back an hour ago at least. What the hell kept them?

Turning round, he watched the Puma hover for a fraction of a second above the deck before the pilot brought it in to land and killed the engine. As the blades stopped turning, you could hear just the lapping of the ocean against the Dorset’s hull, and the humming of her propellers beneath the waves. Six sailors were already running towards the Puma, securing the machine to the deck, and flinging open the hatch.

Porter took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the nicotine mix with the anaesthetic to soothe his nerves. He watched as the first man stepped out of the chopper. Collinson. The little prat, thought Porter. Didn’t fire a shot throughout the whole mission.

Collinson was reaching inside the chopper. ‘Stretchers,’ he shouted to the waiting sailors.

‘Shit,’ said Porter, his voice no more than a whisper quickly stifled by the sea breeze. I hope to hell we didn’t take any more casualties.

Two sailors had already disappeared inside the chopper carrying a stretcher, then two more, then two more. There was a wait of a few seconds. Porter took a step forward, taking a final hit on his cigarette. A stretcher was emerging, carried flat out of the helicopter.

With a white sheet covering it.

‘Fuck, no,’ Porter muttered.

He could feel the pain stabbing up his left arm.

Another stretcher.

And another white sheet.

Porter could feel his heart thumping. He took another step forward, then stopped. He couldn’t bear to go any closer.

One final stretcher emerged from the Puma.

And it too had a white sheet covering it.

Porter wiped away the bead of cold sweat that had formed on his brow.

All three of them, he thought to himself. Steve, Mike and Keith. Dead.

How the fuck did that happen?

‘Porter.’

The voice was sharp, insistent.

Porter turned round. A young sailor was looking straight at him.

‘You’re needed in the debrief room,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’

With his pulse still racing, Porter began to walk. He knew exactly where to go: the same room where they had been briefed on the mission just a few hours ago. He was walking slowly, gripping on to the rails of the metal staircase. When he left them, Steve said he had the situation under control. He told him they just needed to secure the building, then evacuate. Now the three of them were dead. And I wasn’t there to help them.

He pushed open the door to the debrief room. Pemberton was already there and so was Collinson, flanked by a pair of officers. Nobody was smiling. Pemberton looked at him coldly. ‘Come in, Porter,’ he said slowly. ‘Glad to see somebody survived the bloody mission.’

One chair had been positioned directly opposite the main desk. ‘Take a seat, Porter,’ said Pemberton.

‘I prefer to stand.’

‘I said, take a seat,’ he repeated icily. ‘You’re injured, you need to rest.’

Porter pulled out the chair. He didn’t recognise the two other officers, but he could see that one of them was taking notes. ‘What happened, sir?’ he said. ‘To the other blokes, I mean.’

Pemberton rested against the edge of the desk but didn’t sit down. ‘I’ll let Collinson tell you,’ he said.

Glancing up, he could see Perry taking a step forward. He was standing just three feet from where Porter was sitting and you could still smell the gunpowder on his uniform. There was a tear on his jacket, and a plaster covering a cut on his face. ‘It was like this,’ he began. ‘We evacuated you as well as the hostage. Steve wanted to secure the building. It was a sound enough plan. Steve’s a good man. We laid down some fire, enough to keep the Hezbollah guys at bay. It shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes. We were getting ready to clear out when the little Arab fucker you left unconsciousness suddenly came round. He’d crawled across the floor, and picked up one of the AK-47s his mates had left on the floor.’ He paused, glancing towards Pemberton before continuing. ‘Then he sprayed the place with bullets. Took Steve and Keith down instantly. Poor blokes didn’t have a chance. Mike managed to start returning fire, and might have winged the kid, but by then he was running backwards out into the alley. He managed to hit Mike just as he was disappearing from view. He was still alive for the next twenty minutes or so but he was losing a lot of blood, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help him. I knew the chopper would be waiting for us, so I laid down as much fire as I could, and started to make my way upstairs. I was lucky. I reckon the kid had already legged it. I told the pilot to stay put, then I went back to get our boys.’

‘I left him out cold,’ snapped Porter.

‘Then I suppose your punch isn’t hard enough,’ said Collinson. He paused, wiping away some greasy sweat from his forehead. ‘There were two firefights as I went back to collect the bodies. A couple of snipers were trying to get me. I think I may have killed one of them, I’m not sure. Took three runs to get our men, and I don’t mind telling you it was a bit hairy. Still, at least we got out. And, after all, the hostage was rescued.’

Porter’s eyes remained rooted to the floor. If he could have drilled a hole in the bottom of the boat, he would have gladly sunk himself to the bottom of the ocean. Steve, Mike and Keith. Three of the best mates I ever worked with. All dead. And all because I didn’t finish off that little Arab bastard when I had the chance.

‘So, as Perry says, mission accomplished,’ said Pemberton. ‘The hostage is back, and unharmed. But three of our men died, and the Regiment doesn’t take casualties lightly. This is our worst day since the Falklands. So, the question is this, Porter. Why didn’t you kill the boy?’

Porter’s eyes were still rooted to the floor. He couldn’t move them. He wasn’t sure they would ever move again. ‘I … I …’

He could start the sentence. But how the hell could he finish it?

‘Well, man?’ snapped Pemberton. ‘What’s the bloody answer?’

He was just a kid, thought Porter. He was begging me. A child …

‘Sod it, can’t you even speak?’

‘We’re not butchers,’ said Porter suddenly. ‘I left him unconsciousness. There was no way he should have come round.’

‘But he did, didn’t he?’ said Pemberton. ‘And three good men lost their lives. I can’t discipline you, Porter. In this Regiment, every man makes his own decisions in the moment of combat. We don’t have a lot of officers analysing them afterwards.’

Pemberton leant closer into Porter’s face, and he could smell a trace of whisky on his breath. Burying his face in his hands, Porter was desperate for a drink. Any kind of drink. ‘Under the Geneva Convention, you’re not supposed to kill a child, so I don’t think I can court-martial you, as much as I might want to.’ He paused. ‘But I will say this. Perry here deserves a bloody medal, and I’ll make sure he gets one. And you … well, I wouldn’t want to be looking at your face in the mirror every morning knowing that I had the blood of three of my mates on my hands.’

Porter turned round, and started to walk back towards his cabin. He felt empty and bitter inside. Nobody was looking at him, but he heard one man whisper: ‘There’s going to be a lot of dead eyes looking at that bloke.’