G. Moffat - Blindside

The Brits were good at that sort of thing, Raines knew — hearts-and-minds jobs. They’d had plenty of practice during the troubles in Northern Ireland.

‘We also have two colleagues from the US Marine force today. Sergeant Raines and PFC Horn.’

There were a total of twelve soldiers in the room for the operation and Raines and Horn were the only Americans. The Brits turned to look at them. Raines nodded his head in greeting.

Raines knew what kind of first impression he made on people. He had identical, Maori-style tattoos on his shoulder blades — all loops and curls with pointed ends — and they extended up on to his neck. The very topmost points curled around on to the sides of his neck and were visible even above his body armour. His hair was shaved down to a fine bristle and his eyes were so dark in colour that even from a modest distance they looked almost black.

Next to him, Horn was like a choirboy with his razored blond hair and fresh face.

‘They will travel in the lead Snatch,’ the British commander continued. ‘With the lieutenant and Corporal Johnson of the Royal Military Police. Everyone clear on what they have to do? Good, let’s get going. It’s going to be bloody hot today so the quicker we get this done the better.’

Raines stood with Horn, both men lifting their helmets and rifles and moving with the other soldiers out of the room and towards the heat that they could feel as they neared the open door.

Outside, Raines saw the three Land Rovers that were going to be used for the op: two ‘Snatches’ — lightly armoured versions of the vehicle — and a WMIK — an armed Land Rover. The latter had a. 50 calibre machine gun mounted on top.

‘You boys up for this, today?’

Raines and Horn turned as the female lieutenant approached behind them. She was wearing regulation desert camo fatigues, body armour and helmet. She had a sidearm in a holster on her hip but no rifle. Loose strands of dark hair fell from under her helmet.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ Raines said. ‘Happy to help.’

‘Good. How long have you got left?’

‘We’re done end of this month. Twelve months in.’

‘Lucky you, eh? I just got here.’

‘It’ll go quick,’ Raines told her.

‘Let’s hope so.’

She walked ahead of them heading for the lead Snatch. Raines looked at Horn, seeing his young private watching the lieutenant. Horn looked sheepish when he saw that Raines had caught him.

‘She seems nice,’ Raines said.

‘Yes, Sergeant. She does.’

It always ended the same way for Matt Horn: in dream or memory.

Raines forced himself to think of something else, ran his hand over the rough scar of the bullet wound on his shin and watched the coffee start to drip into the pot fixed under the machine.

The apartment was sparsely furnished: a simple table and two chairs in the kitchen, a couch and TV in the living room and a bed with a table beside it in the bedroom. Raines didn’t think of it as home. It was a place to live. That was all. The furniture was second-hand, bought mainly from ads he found in local shops and newspapers. He could leave it all behind and never give it a second thought.

The place was perfect for what he wanted: a one-bed, one-bath apartment in a big, Victorian redstone building. He was the quiet, dangerous-looking guy with the tats who lived alone and didn’t have anything to do with anyone else. He said hello to all his neighbours and smiled but didn’t know any of them by name. It was how he liked it. No one invited him to parties and no one stopped him to talk about work or football or anything else.

Raines didn’t think of himself as having a home anywhere any more. Not the apartment and certainly not the place in the mountains outside of the city.

The phone rang and Raines went to the counter to pick it up.

‘It’s me,’ a man’s voice said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Did you hear?’

‘No.’

‘Stark got on the plane last night.’

Raines said nothing, scraping his nails at the stubble on his face.

‘The plane that went down,’ the man said.

‘You saw him get on? You’re sure of it?’

‘He was on it. But he wasn’t using the name Stark. The ticket was under the name John Reece.’

Raines listened to the hiss and burble of the coffee machine.

‘There’s nothing more to be done about it, then,’ he said.

He hung up and went to the window, opening the blinds. Sunlight slanted in through the narrow slats.

He felt numb. It was all he had ever felt since coming back from the war.

Raines drove into Lower Downtown Denver, glancing at a sign welcoming him to ‘LoDo’. He passed by converted Victorian warehouses housing bars and shops and parked his pick-up truck on the street outside a diner at the corner of Seventeenth and Market.

Inside, he told the waitress that he was meeting someone and needed a table for two. She grabbed a couple of menus and led him to a table set against a bare brick wall. The place was nice, but nothing out of the ordinary — anonymous.

Raines liked anonymous.

He rubbed at his jeans where the scar was on his leg, feeling an ache starting to throb.

He stared out of the window fronting the street, light from the sun reflecting in the glass of the shop fronts across the road. Remembered the baking heat of the sun that day at Lashkar Gah. Remembered the oven-like interior of the Land Rover they travelled in to get to the poppy field.

Raines and Horn got to the Land Rover and waited at the rear door with the British lieutenant and the RMP corporal. Two privates came over from the body of British soldiers, unlocked the rear doors and went round to the front.

The corporal looked no older than Horn, who was twenty-three. Raines still found it hard to believe that Horn had left college, where he was studying chemistry and physics, to join the army and come to this god-awful place. Plus, he’d had his shaggy, student hair shaved off in a regulation military cut. Raines had turned forty on this tour and for the first time in his military career was starting to feel old.

The lieutenant motioned for Raines and Horn to get in the back of the Land Rover. They climbed in and sat facing each other on parallel benches immediately behind the front seats. They shifted, trying to get comfortable in the heat, swatting at flies that buzzed in from outside. Horn wiped his sleeve across his face, smearing sweat on his uniform.

‘Christ it’s hot,’ the British RMP corporal said, climbing in and sitting next to Horn.

The lieutenant sat next to Raines and pulled the rear door shut.

‘Yeah,’ Horn said. ‘Wait till next month, then complain.’

The corporal stared at Horn as though he had insulted his mother. He caught himself and tried to smile. It was less than convincing.

Raines knew the type: way too much testosterone and always on the verge of a fight. Even the most innocuous of comments or a look out of place was likely to set him off. He knew, because it was how he used to be.

‘What’s your name, son?’ Raines asked him.

‘Andy Johnson, Sarge.’

The lieutenant leaned towards the soldiers in the front of the vehicle.

‘Let’s get this moving, please, gentlemen,’ she shouted over the sound of the diesel engine starting up.

‘Yes, ma’am,’ the driver replied.

‘Hold on to your hats,’ Raines said. ‘We’re heading for bandit country.’

A man sat opposite Raines in the diner and put his newspaper down on the table; waved at the waitress to bring him some coffee. He was a stocky man with dark hair cut military short.

‘Penny for them?’ the man asked.

Raines said nothing and waited for the waitress to finish and leave. He thought about Matt Horn. About how it all went so wrong.