Gerald Seymour - Beyond Recall

Mikki said, “We’re having two platoons up on that sector of the fence. The line we’re going would give us a two-kilometre probability zone, where they’d be looking to cross. Two platoons and vehicles on the patrol track.”

They went forward at a good pace, and had the fire-power drawn from the armoury.

Mikki said, “As long as this is understood, we do not walk through this shit-hole territory in the interests of that bastard. Not for him… Could have been that shot sent him on, and not a wet eye from anyone I know.”

“His mother might weep but not for long. And nothing from his father. We are here on this fuck-awful piece of ground to do things for the reputation of the brigadier. We had the contract to watch for him.”

“Had the contract and were pissed.”

“Pissed and asleep, and the contract paid us well.”

“Were asleep when he was lifted.”

“Which is?”

“Which is not something to be shouted from the rooftops.”

Two peals of laughter, but both grim and shorn of humour. They moved fast and their legs pounded the rough ground like they had decades before when they had trained to go to Afghanistan. Tiredness would kick in later… Nothing to do with rescuing the young FSB major and nothing to do with the possible, or probable, incursion of a team from a hostile state. Only to do with the loyalty felt for the brigadier.

Gaz had realised the change. The kids were behind them, at a distance, but keeping pace. No one spoke. Gaz did not talk to his prisoner about the weight of responsibility, nor about what he had seen from his position on that day more than two years before, made no accusations. The major had denounced himself, declared his guilt and shame, but said no more of it. Did not complain about the lack of food or water, did not try to free his arms, or speak of the kids’ attack. Gaz reckoned that soon they would break away and might shout a farewell and might not, but would head back, would want to be in their dealing zones when the peculiar half-light of the Arctic summer came to their city.

Soon they would be, if his navigation was proven, at the lake, and they might rest there, and he would be wary and have the pistol ready, and consider how they would do the last leg to the fence perhaps an hour and a half away. His concentration roved. Knew it and could not stop it.

Part of his mind dribbled in the direction of what would follow his crossing – after he had climbed high, and to hell with the barbed wire on the top, and no concern for the alarms that would be shrieking in some control centre. Where would Knacker be? How would it be received, bringing back a prisoner? The man in front of him kept his own counsel, did not query where they went, how they would go across the frontier. Would have wanted a corpse and the ability to filter word to a broken community that vengeance of a sort had been inflicted on those responsible. Not able to get at the Iranians, their commander and militiamen beyond reach, but a Russian officer was a bigger prize. Except they would not have that: instead they must make do with a man – ordinary and seeming harmless, respecting the instructions of the court guards, standing in front of robed lawyers. Would have wanted a body, and were not going to have one. Thought also, accessing a different section of his mind, of the danger of the lack of concentration and his inability to create a full sense of danger. Knew of men who had been in Afghanistan and who had done long-range patrols or had been in the business of defusing the IEDs, and who had been either careless or too tired to register what was around them, and had died – like the devils stalked them and watched for weakness. And switching back in his mind, the people on the other side – Knacker and his girls – would have to make do with what they were given.

A big bird circled high over them, and sometimes he heard the kids talking, and did not know why they followed. He listened for sirens and for a helicopter, heard neither. Sometimes Gaz was aware of wheezing noises and thought it was the kids, and sometimes a twig snapped, and he thought that was the kids’ feet. And he tried to up the speed but was too tired and the ground too rough, and they managed only a plodding progress on the old animal trails.

Close enough now to the lake to see the reflections bouncing off it, and silver ripples.

It was the biggest, best, marker point since he had started to walk the prisoner across the empty landscape. Felt almost proud – not about the mission, not about its success, but about the simplicity of navigation… didn’t think many would have been able to locate it. Getting close to the lake deflected what was more serious – the border. But, still surprising, there were no helicopters and no drones, and no baying dogs. The kids followed them and he did not know why, were just a distant tail… At the water, fish were leaping, leaving increasing circles. He stopped and motioned that the prisoner sit on a rock, and was refused. The prisoner pointed to his flies. Gaz had the role of gaoler which he took seriously. Half the men he had known in the military, maybe even Arnie and Sam who were the last he had worked with, and maybe even ‘Bomber’ Harris who piloted the Chinook when they had been taken to the village, would have told him to go ‘piss his pants’. Not Gaz. He fiddled with the officer’s flies, and worked the necessary gap in his pants, and might have grinned sheepishly. It came in a flood and some went down into the lake. He thought it was an obligation, and the prisoner finished, and shook his backside and let the last drop go, and Gaz put him back inside and zipped his flies, then motioned to the rock.

His prisoner sat. “Thank you.”

Gaz grunted. It had seemed the right thing to do, and he had done it, and nodded to acknowledge the gratitude, and reckoned it was genuine.

“And I do not know your name.”

“ ‘Corporal’, just that.”

“And I am ‘Major’. Why did they give this work, this mission, to a man so junior, to a corporal?”

“Because I was there and because I could identify you.”

“Why did they not send trained men with you, men from the special services?”

“I cannot discuss operational planning.”

“You are very formal, Corporal.”

“I think that is as it should be, Major.”

As an afterthought, Gaz pushed the Makarov down the back of his belt. He went to the edge of the lake and stood on pebbles, crouched and leaned forward and cupped his hands. He filled them with water. Then went back to the rock and his prisoner lapped at the water, wet his mouth but slopped most of it. Did it again, and repeated it until the prisoner indicated he had taken in enough.

“Tell me something, Corporal.”

“I will not discuss the planning of the mission, its end-game.”

“This question, did your family push you into the military?”

“It was my own decision.”

“You did not join because that was the wish of your father and mother?”

“It was nothing to do with my guardians. I do not know the name of my father and I have not seen my birth mother since I was very young.”

A sigh, a shrug, a roll of the eyes as if to say, ‘God and were you not fucking lucky…’ and then, “Are you still corporal, in the military? Will you be promoted if the mission is successful? Well rewarded? I ask to learn your motivation, Corporal.”

“I am no longer in the military. I am a civilian. I had the rank of corporal, but not any longer. I garden for people and repair their homes. It is what I can manage.”

“Because?”

“Because of illness.”

“In the Russian military we call it the Afghan Syndrome – that illness?”

“Because of what I saw, was a witness to. I was violent, hit someone I was close to, a woman. I also can be ashamed of my actions, and feel guilt. And that is enough, and neither you nor me is a therapist. Enough.”