Chris Ryan - Osama

The rounds from the second burst landed over an area of about ten square metres, twenty metres from Joe’s position. Unable to control the recoil of the rifle, the kid had staggered backwards and turned to grin at his mates. More shouting from their direction; the boy raised the Kalashnikov again.

Joe had to do something. He hadn’t signed up to nail kids, but these were insurgents in the making. He pulled a white-phosphorus grenade from his ops vest. He squeezed the detonation lever and pulled the pin with his teeth. Then he tensed his stomach muscles, forced himself into a half-sitting position, and hurled the grenade with all his strength. A thick curtain of white smoke would give him chance to swastika it out of there.

But the explosion that followed was ten times louder than he expected. The ground shook; the air rang; the earth between Joe and the kids erupted, and the bang echoed across the desert, shredding Joe’s nerves. There was a cloud of smoke all right, but a whole lot more than he’d have expected from a white-phos grenade. He could only assume that the canister had hit another pressure plate.

‘Run,’ he hissed at himself. ‘Fucking run!’

Pushing himself to his feet, he stepped over the trip wire. Distance to the drop-off point, half a klick. If he wanted to extract with that chopper, he needed to get there fast.

He sprinted. He knew he was risking his life, that he still had ten to fifteen metres of the minefield to clear, but he couldn’t let the Yanks extract without him. People other than the kids would have heard the explosions; people better armed and with greater skill; people Joe didn’t want to get into contact with all by himself, especially now that the smoke from the grenade was dissipating. Each time his foot hit the ground, he expected to feel the telltale spring of a pressure plate, to hear the blast that was going to kill him.

But it didn’t come.

He cleared the minefield in five seconds. Behind him, the noise of more gunfire, but he knew he was fully out of range now. All he could do was leg it back to the chopper.

Even weighed down by his gear, he’d never run so fast. No point shouting at the others that he was coming, he realized – they’d never hear him over the noise of the chopper, and his energy was better expended on moving quickly.

He bolted round the curve at the base of the hill. A hundred metres. Two hundred. The chopper came into sight. It was kicking up the dust, and even in the daylight he could see a faint glow where the particles of sand were sparking against the rotors. The Americans were there, but they were little more than shadows in the cloud that surrounded the aircraft. It was 250 metres away. A hundred and fifty. The figures had disappeared inside the Black Hawk.

He could see the outline of the tail rising. Overhead, a second Black Hawk screamed across the sky: Team Bravo, extracting.

Fifty metres. A change in the quality of the noise coming from the chopper’s engines. Higher-pitched. It was preparing to lift.

Joe stopped just short of the dust cloud, twenty metres from the aircraft, and skirted round so that he was facing its front. He grabbed his firefly beacon from his vest and turned it on. To start with there was no visible light, but he ripped off its infra-red filter so that now a strong white light flashed from the beacon. All he could do now was hold it up above his head and pray that the pilot could see it through the dust.

But the dust cloud was getting bigger. Two seconds later it had engulfed Joe. He could see nothing but the silhouette of the Black Hawk every second as the firefly lit it up. He could see it rising. Five metres in the air. Ten metres.

And then, the sound of the rotors powering down. The dust subsided a little. The chopper returned to the ground.

Joe sprinted round to the side of the aircraft, where he could just make out the sight of the American loadie, headphones on, urgently ushering him in. He jumped inside and could feel the Black Hawk rising almost immediately.

Joe’s face was a filthy mixture of sweat and dirt, but it was not so black as his mood. He strode directly up to Hernandez, who was sitting impassively with his back against the wall of the chopper, surrounded by his men. He grabbed the SEAL by the front of his body armour and yanked him to his feet.

‘Where the fuck were you?’ he roared, his voice dry, hoarse and full of fury, before swinging the unit leader round and hurling him to the floor. He started to bear down on the guy, but instantly he felt hands pulling him back. A solid blow behind his knee forced him to the ground; next thing he knew, Hernandez was standing above him, weapon at the ready, his scarred and pockmarked face a picture of distaste.

‘We heard two explosions, pal. We thought you were both KIA.’

‘And you didn’t come to check?’

Silence.

The Black Hawk swerved in the air. Hernandez had no reply. He just jutted his weapon in the direction of the opposite side of the aircraft. Joe knew what to do. He took his place, and as the chopper returned to Bagram he felt the heat of the Americans’ unfriendly glares on him, and the gaping absence of the friend he’d left in pieces on the ground.

0923 hours.

The Regiment hangar was a blur of activity. American military commanders were in and out, trying to get the low-down on what had happened out there. None of them were getting anything but the shortest shrift from Fletcher, who, for all his faults, was doing the only thing the guys would have expected of him: making sure that Ricky’s next of kin knew he wasn’t coming home. That they couldn’t even find any bits to stick in a box so the family had something to plant was information that could wait for now. Let it sink in that the poor bastard was dead first.

Joe sat in the R & R quadrant of the hangar, away from it all. His helmet was by his side, next to a full bottle of sterilized water that he hadn’t touched even though his throat was desert-dry; his filthy face was in his hands. Five minutes ago he had been vaguely aware of some broad-shouldered American rupert with a lapel full of badges on his khaki uniform and couple of intelligence officers by his side. They were looking in his direction and talking to Fletcher. The OC had obviously told them where to get off, because they hadn’t bugged him; but they hadn’t left either, and were now hanging around by the main doors.

The TV on the wall behind him was murmuring quietly. BBC News 24 drifted in and out of Joe’s consciousness.

‘ The White House press secretary has backtracked on claims that Osama bin Laden was armed when he was shot dead by American special forces… ’

This information barely registered. Joe was reliving for the hundredth time the explosion that killed Ricky.

‘ The White House has attributed mistakes and contradictions to “the fog of war”… ’

He was only alive himself by chance…

‘ Osama bin Laden’s twelve-year-old daughter has told Pakistani investigators that her father was captured alive and shot dead in front of family members… ’

Family members. The words caused a leaden feeling in his stomach.

‘Will someone turn this fucking television off??’ Joe heard his own voice, but it didn’t seem to come from him. There was a click, however, and the commentary fell silent. Joe looked up to see Fletcher standing over him.

‘You should get some water down you.’

‘What are you?’ Joe retorted. ‘Florence fucking Nightingale?’

‘I’m your OC, and if you talk to me like that again I’ll fuck you up and have you on the next boat back to Hereford.’

Joe looked away.

An awkward pause.

‘Ricky was a good lad,’ Fletcher said, his voice subdued. ‘I’m sorry you had to see him go.’