Andy McNab - Battlefield 3 - The Russian

‘To execute him in public.’

Rajah sighed and shook his head.

‘The things I’ve seen happen in my country. . Through the seventies we yearned for liberation from the Shah; after the Revolution, when it got even worse, we hoped again for freedom. But this. .’

‘What about Kaffarov’s armaments, a nuclear device?’

He shrugged. ‘Of that I know nothing.’

Dima reached down, grabbed his chin and forced him to look into his eyes. Once he had counted him as a friend. Not now. ‘You say you know nothing about the nuclear device Kaffarov had with him? Fuck with me and I swear I will find you and kill you.’

Rajah looked back into his eyes and Dima saw there was no deception. ‘Please understand, Al Bashir gives nothing away. Only those closest to him know his plans. Before, he was — I thought he was — the solution. Now. .’ He let out a long despairing sigh.

Dima felt his anger subside a little. This changed everything. The mission was fucked. Paliov had it all wrong. All that waste of life. . Rajah raised his hands. ‘Foreign influences.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘Dima, you told us to respect ourselves, to listen to our instincts. . This country is sinking into madness. Al Bashir has let the genie out of the bottle.’

‘What does that mean?’

Rajah shook his head. ‘He wants revenge — worldwide — for what he says has been done to our country. Even if he doesn’t live to see it. That’s why he was so fixated on the weapons — the portable ones.’

He gripped Dima’s arm. ‘Get away from here while you can. A PLR unit is in the air now.’

‘How long?’

‘Thirty minutes, fifty at most.’

Dima studied his old protégé’s face, embraced him briefly and left the room, collecting Gregorin on the way.

‘Forget the search: we’re leaving.’

18

FOB Spartacus, Iraqi Kurdistan

Black always addressed his letters ‘Dear Mom and Dad’, but he always sent them to his mother. That way he knew they would get read. She was the one who did the admin, opened the bills, sorted stuff out. To begin with he had written separately to each of them, but once, on home leave, firing up the PC, he looked at his father’s inbox and saw his mails unopened. Nevertheless he kept his discovery to himself and it was never spoken about — like so much to do with his father.

He opened his laptop and clicked on ‘New Message’.

Please do not ignore this mail. Dad, he wrote: Today I saw a man die in front of me and I was powerless to help him. I think that for the first time in my life I am finally beginning to understand what you went through. I just wish that—.

Montes burst in. ‘It’s go. C’mon.’

Black hesitated, about to click on ‘Save’, then chose ‘Send’. Who knows when I’ll get to finish it, he thought.

As they assembled in full body armour, two soldiers he didn’t recognise approached Black. Montes whispered, ‘Buddies of Harker’. The shorter one raised a gloved finger and pointed at Black’s name.

‘Did all you could, huh?’

‘I’m sorry about your buddy. Sorry for your loss.’

‘Your loss too, man. Not just ours.’

The taller but slighter one put a hand on the other’s arm, who was shorter but stockier, with a huge neck like a bull. He shook it off, bristling.

‘C’mon, Dwayne, don’t do this.’

Black stopped, legs apart, squaring up. Having failed to save Harker, was he now going to beat up his friends? It was too pathetic. All the same, he wasn’t just going to stand there.

‘Look, I appreciate—.’

‘You don’t appreciate nothin’, you fuckin’ coward .’

The other one put his hand out again, and again was thrown off. This was not an insult Blackburn could let stand. On the other hand, what they had been through, and thanks to modern technology what they had seen, was not in the manual either.

‘Men like you are a disgrace to the service. You make me sick, you piece of shit.’

Black took a step towards him.

‘Listen carefully,’ he said. ‘There. Was. Nothing. I. Could. Do. This is a war. People get killed. Six of my own men were killed yesterday and that is war. You got that?’

Both men watched him now, trying to gauge what sort of opponent he was going to be. The short angry one’s fist moved up a fraction and before it had gone two inches Blackburn had pinned his arm behind his back. ‘Now, take your friend and go and pound the punchbag. Okay?’

He saw Cole approaching and released the man’s arm. The three of them saluted and Harker’s friends moved on. Cole watched them go, then gave Blackburn a look.

‘Just shooting the breeze there, Sir.’

‘Okay, Sergeant. Let’s get this one done, okay?’

19

Bazargan, Northern Iran

It was in their training from day one. Be prepared for nothing to be what it seems, trust no one you don’t have to, and never entirely drop your guard with those you do trust. Spetsnaz were trained to do many things that ordinary soldiers wouldn’t have a clue about. Part of the selection process was to weed out anyone who showed any tendency to take anything for granted. Working undercover, living double lives, going months embedded in hostile organisations without hearing a friendly voice, living on your wits, thinking for yourself, making life or death decisions about who to kill and who you might save. Achieving this required resources that were beyond most humans.

This one had it all. Dima could blame Paliov for the design of the mission, for its poor chain of command, for the intelligence failures — about Kaffarov, about what to expect in the compound. He could blame Shenk for his failure to wait until the compound was secured, for engaging in the firefight, putting his chopper in harm’s way. But above all Dima blamed himself for allowing Paliov to draw him into this catastrophic misadventure, and he particularly blamed himself for recruiting the team around him, who came willingly because they believed in him.

All of these thoughts ran through his head as he led them back to the cars. Already they could hear the PLR helicopter circling, looking for somewhere to land other than the compound, strewn as it was with bodies and debris.

They moved as swiftly as they could, bending low, dodging between branches and leaping over dips in the boggy ground. None of them spoke. He glanced at Gregorin and Zirak, their faces masks of shock, and sorrow for their comrades, roasted alive.

‘Anyone see where that missile came from?’ Vladimir asked, as they walked. “Cos it sure as hell didn’t come from the ground.’

Dima paused, looked at them all. Gregorin nodded. ‘He’s right. Came in from the west, not from below.’

Dima brought them to a halt and grouped them into a huddle. ‘What happened back there — I’ve seen some fuckups but none of them come close to that. A waste of fine men, for which I take responsibility.’

The others looked at the ground.

Kroll raised a finger. ‘Does this mean we’re headed home?’

Dima looked at their faces. ‘Each man is free to make his choice.’

Vladimir spoke next. ‘What’s your choice?’

Dima didn’t need to think. He already knew. ‘Continue. Hunt down Kaffarov, find his WMD.’

Vladimir looked at Kroll, then back to Dima. ‘Then I’m in.’

The other three nodded in unison.

For the first time that night Dima had a reason to feel optimistic.

‘From now on — our plan: no one else’s. We do this thing our way’

Dima stepped away from the group to get Paliov on the satphone secure line. When he had finished giving the report there was a long silence at the other end.