Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

There was no sign of the big boxy Mercedes G-Wagen, identified on the satellite pictures as Kaffarov’s.

He turned to Kroll. ‘Call up the Slug. Put them on standby.’

A plan was forming in his head, which involved laying down enough fire in one area to provoke the crowd — and the shooters — into taking cover in one corner. But a second later he abandoned it. A prisoner, hooded, half-naked and shackled, was being led by four men towards the far wall. He was not going willingly. Could it be Kaffarov? He was short and from his torso he looked to be the right age. Whatever Dima thought of him personally, the mission was to bring him back in one piece.

He turned to Kroll. ‘Tell the Slug it’s go-go. Expect armed response. Tell them to be prepared to fire on descent.’ Then he addressed the others, pointing at the hooded man. ‘If that’s what I think it is we have to take out the executioners.’

Above the raised platform towards which the captive was being dragged was a thick beam, from which hung several nooses. His legs were flailing wildly. Despite the hood, he was under no illusion as to what was about to happen.

Dima beckoned Vladimir. ‘Prepare five rappels — when we go, we go down together.’ He looked at Zirak and Gregorin. ‘Which of you is the best shot?’ They each pointed at the other. ‘OK, G comes before V: Gregorin. Move twenty metres to your right and take out the hangmen. Don’t hit the prisoner: he could be Kaffarov. Kroll, how close are the Go Team?’

‘One minute.’

He heard the distant thrum of the Mil, but there was too much action down below for anyone to notice yet. In position, Gregorin watched the action through his sights, postponing the first shot as long as he could. Then three things happened in quick succession. A few of the gunmen on the ground looked up at the approach of the still invisible Mil, and Gregorin fired his first shot at the execution team. One fell. The rest, struggling to get the writhing man’s head through the noose, thought he had slipped or been kicked — until the second shot took the face off another of them. The others dropped the hooded man like a hot coal and ran for cover, as their victim flopped on to the platform and curled into a foetal position. Then from the corner of his eye Dima saw the lights of a truck come on. It shot forward, forcing its way through the men and the guards towards the gates. ‘Shoot out the tyres!’ yelled Kroll. ‘Stop the truck!’

But the men, panicked, were surging around the vehicle. It was impossible to get a clean shot without hitting the occupants or the crowd. Most of them now had their faces craned towards the sky, as the Mil came overhead, obliterating all sound as it hovered. The ropes came down, followed by the first of the Go Team. They loosed off teargas, but it wasn’t enough to cover them effectively as a volley of shots met them. Dima cursed as he saw the first two fall to the ground, wounded or dead.

‘Fire at will,’ he yelled to the others, but they had already started. ‘Take out the gunners.’ Then he saw it. Less than a hundred metres from the Slug, ghostly in the thick haze of the night sky, the Nuke team’s Mil hovering — drifting closer, as if waiting to land. It was way too early. It had no radar jamming. It wasn’t equipped for hostile action. Why were they so close? Then he saw the side door open. Shenk’s team were firing as well. Some of the gunners on the ground noticed the second chopper and started firing back.

Dima screamed at Kroll: ‘Pull back! Get Shenk to pull back NOW!’

But Kroll couldn’t hear. He was preoccupied with the shooting. As soon as Dima looked back he saw it. A streak of bright light from the south arcing into the sky and then sweeping towards them, the warhead black and invisible against the blinding blaze of its propellant.

‘Missile!’

Dima could only watch as it slammed into the cockpit of Shenk’s Mil, shearing the front clean off, the flaming bodies of the crew falling from the wreckage. Meanwhile, the frontless craft turned upwards, dropped its tail and began to spin like a giant boomerang towards the Slug. The Slug pilots, facing the other way, would never have known what hit them. Dima and his team flattened themselves against the wall as the rotors of the two aircraft engaged. The smaller craft fell first, on to the wall opposite Dima’s team, wobbled, then slid nose down next to the hangman’s platform. The stricken Slug took longer, its sophisticated avionics struggling to compensate for the damaged rotors — but it was all too much for them. The nose of the craft reared up, the draught almost blowing Dima off the wall, as it smashed down into the centre of the compound. A giant fireball swept over them.

15

Forward Operating Base Spartacus, Iraqi Kurdistan

The shower was cold and the pressure zero, but as far as Blackburn was concerned it was the best wash he had ever had. He stood there far longer than his allocated time, and if anyone had a problem with that they could go fuck themselves. Several cuts and scars stung viciously as he smoothed the soap over them. He watched the soupy puddle of dust and soot mix with the congealed blood into the familiar war cocktail that swilled around his feet. But he knew that even if he stood under there for a month, what had happened yesterday was never going to wash off. Is this it, he wondered, the moment when a man changes for ever?

When he’d walked off the Osprey back at the FOB everyone stared. Montes, who had just got the news, came jogging up and slowed when he saw him.

‘Man, you look like you came back from the dead.’

Only when he caught his reflection in a vehicle mirror did he realise why. His face and hair were completely grey with dust and soot, mixed with sweat into a paste which the sun had then baked dry. His T-shirt was stiff with his own blood and that of the dead girl. Montes threw his arms round him and several wounds protested in unison.

‘We’d wrote you out the script, man.’

As he marched Blackburn to the shower trailer, Montes gave him their end, how after Blackburn had followed the wires into the building they’d felt the first tremor and made for open ground, just as the big one hit and all the buildings collapsed around them. He outlined a mushroom with his hands. ‘Baboom. Hello Hiroshima. Place looked like out of some demented game your Mom won’t want you playin’. Next thing, they pullin’ us out.’

He was doing what all soldiers do after an incident — reprocessing it into an action movie, with all the dark stuff left out. That was for the chaplain or the psych. ‘Found the sniper who got Chaffin — had a fat boulder right where his dick used to be and a big look of surprise on his face. Gonna give him a big fucking problem with the virgins upstairs.’

Black looked like he was listening, but other scenes were playing in his head. He wanted the beheaded man ID’d. Montes quit talking. ‘Your turn.’

Black tapped his head. ‘All fuzzed up.’ If only.

When he exited the shower, he noticed things were already changing on the base. Frontloaders were filling a fresh set of Hesco bastions with sand and a truck-mounted jib was hefting them into place, doubling the height of the fortifications. A new guard tower was going up. The base, which had been all about peacekeeping and nation-building, was being put on a war footing.

Blackburn and Lieutenant Cole faced each other across a folding table strewn with maps. Not the familiar ones of their patch along the border, all dog-eared and stained with coffee, but fresh ones of another country — Iran. Cole had his laptop open. He was hunched over it, arms folded, peering at the screen, typing rapidly while he listened to Black’s report. Blackburn recounted the scene as it played in his head, as it would again and again for years to come, whether he wanted it to or not, the star exhibit in his gallery of unwelcome memories.