Andy McNab - War torn

Darrel said quietly: 'It's not your fault.'

But she did not uncurl. So she had unwittingly ended this man's marriage. It wasn't her fault. But did that leave her with some responsibilities towards him?

She heard him get up. What was he doing now? Crossing the room? She did not uncurl to see. She shut her eyes and ears and said Aves to herself to keep them shut. Then she remembered. She should pay him for repairing the television, for the gadget he had bought. If she didn't pay him then there was an implication of friendship. Or obligation.

She jumped up. The room was empty except for Luke, now asleep on the floor, his mouth open and his hands up as though he was under arrest. Her sketch lay on the sofa.

She ran to the door but she was too late. His car was just pulling away.

THE MAIL ARRIVED MINUTES BEFORE 1 SECTION LEFT FOR ITS PATROL and the boss delayed by ten minutes so that the men could read it before they jumped on the Vectors.

Dave got a letter from his mother, a letter from Jenny and, ominously, a letter from Jenny's mother too. He started the one from Jenny, then left them on his cot and went to count the men into the vehicles.

'We're a decoy, so don't let's delude ourselves we're a fire team,' he reminded them.

Sol was standing at his side.

'Just help me with my English, would you?' he muttered. 'What's the difference between a decoy and a sitting duck?'

Dave rolled his eyes.

'You don't need any help with your English,' he said. 'Today there is no difference.'

Sol's ankle had healed and Dave had been relieved to have him back commanding 1 Section.

He turned to the lads jumping on board the Vectors right now. Streaky Bacon and Jack Binns were still battle virgins. They'd been on patrol and escorted contractors and been caught in sporadic, low-key fire fights but they had not yet been involved in anything more serious. Although they insisted that they were ready and eager to do so, neither had fired a shot.

'You're not going out for a fucking picnic!' Dave barked at Streaky. 'Sling your weapon, sprog, and get two hands on it.'

Binns, climbing in behind Streaky, undid his sling clip rapidly before Dave could see. He looked sheepish when he saw Sol watching him.

Dave jumped in beside the driver of the first vehicle as it pulled away. The boss sat with Asma at the front of the second.

As they rumbled across the desert Dave felt on edge. His eyes scanned every ripple in the landscape. Ever since that goat had exploded so spectacularly right in front of him, he'd been forced to accept that IEDs had become impossible to spot. Before then he had tried to persuade himself that, if he was alert enough, he couldn't be caught on the wrong end of an explosion.

Nevertheless, he kept his eyes peeled for a pile of stones or recently disturbed earth which might hint at something beneath the surface. He stared hard at a young man watching the convoy from his motorbike whose mobile phone could be a detonator.

It was common knowledge that the Taliban were stepping up their use of IEDs. Their explosives were getting bigger and better and the capacity of the Vectors to withstand their blasts was now in question because most of their armour was on top rather than underneath. Since 1 Platoon had arrived in Sin City, news had filtered in regularly of British soldiers elsewhere in Helmand Province who had been killed or injured by mines. There were antipersonnel mines and anti-tank mines and, if you managed to avoid all these, there were always the Soviet-era legacy mines.

As they crossed the featureless desert they passed the first train of camels Dave had seen here. It was a biblical sight, the line of humped backs and long necks making slow and rhythmic progress across the sand.

'Could be two thousand years ago,' the driver said.

'Except for the IEDs.'

'This route has been cleared.'

'Cleared last week doesn't mean it's still clear today.'

'You're not your usual self, Sarge. Having a bad day?'

'I'm pissed off with being sent out undermanned. There's just not enough of us. And one's a woman and two are sprogs. The civilians are forcing us to spread ourselves too thin. So we're a decoy and we're supposed to keep going but the Taliban don't know that. To them we're just the enemy.'

'Well maybe we'll have a nice quiet ride today,' the driver said cheerfully.

'You don't sound your usual self either,' Dave said. The driver was famous for his gloomy predictions.

'I've got mail in my cot. One from the missus and one from my bird. What more can a man ask for?'

'Let's hope you don't meet your maker today, then, or everything you've got will get sent straight back to your missus unless I remember to pull it out first.'

The man's face clouded.

'Fuck it, I never thought of that.' Then his expression brightened again. 'But she can't nag if I'm dead, can she?'

The incoming fire began the moment they arrived in the Green Zone.

'Keep going,' said the boss. The men on top cover returned fire.

They passed the point where the platoon had dismounted last time they were here. They passed the cannabis field. Dave thought he could smell it and when a roar went up from the lads in the back ('We know where we are! Too fucking right we do! Got everything you came with, Mal?'), he was sure he could smell it. They drove towards the river crossing and the firing suddenly and mysteriously stopped.

'I don't like this,' said Dave. 'Go slow.'

'If we keep our heads down and get moving we'll be through it in no time.' The driver was a lot less happy than he'd been ten minutes ago.

'Oh, yeah? We're supposed to have cleared this area. But they started firing the minute we got here. They're telling us they're back. Slow down so I can keep a sharp look-out.'

The driver slowed. There was still no firing.

'The fuckers are behind us, so let's just take a run at it,' the driver said.

'No. Slow down more.'

The driver barely slowed at all.

'Slower!' Dave yelled, his eyes fixed on the track ahead. He could see it start to rise about two hundred metres in front of them where the track became a bridge over the mighty Helmand River. He could smell the pollen of cannabis and other plants mixed in with the hot dust. Big, floppy leaves tapped gently against the side of the vehicle as they passed. Dave's senses were so alert they seemed to be screaming at him. He did not blink and his eyes were dry with the effort of scanning the dusty track.

He thought: If I was a guerrilla fighter I'd let the army believe they'd cleared this crossing. Then I'd go back. I'd put an IED just before the bridge. I'd make sure no other traffic passed and pedestrians were kept away. An army convoy would come along and it would seem quiet here. The front of the convoy would be blown up. Everyone would stop. Then I'd ambush the rest from behind. So they'd be trapped…

Until now there had been a lot of detritus floating around in his mind: fragments of last night's dream, the knowledge of Jenny's letter on his cot, the information that his knee was hurting for no reason, the worry that Steve Buckle might never recover his mind, a curt warning from Major Willingham that he would have to interview Dave about the death of one wounded insurgent in a ditch. All those thoughts stopped now. The sudden certainty that the Taliban would have planted an IED in their path and in a place where it would cause most chaos sliced cleanly through all the other voices in his ear.

'Stop!' he yelled as they approached the bridge.

The driver responded to the volume and urgency of Dave's instruction by slamming on the brakes. Behind them, they could hear the second vehicle screeching to a halt too, and the third behind that.

'What's going on?' the boss demanded.