Читать книгу Kara’s Game - Gordon Stevens - Страница 8

The room was on the first floor of the anonymous block on the left of the main gate of the British headquarters at Split. Half a kilometre away in one direction was the airport servicing this part of the Dalmatian coast, half a kilometre in another were the pebble beaches and what in summer were the clear blue waters of the Adriatic. Now the islands of Brac and Hvar hung like ghosts in the winter fog, and the damp mixed with the cold.

The eight bunks were along one wall, and the television set was in the corner. Finn slumped in an armchair and watched the news coverage of the peace talks in Vienna on the feed from the British Forces Television service, some of the other seven men with whom he shared the room also watching. Finn was early thirties, strong upper body and a little over six feet tall. Like the others he was dressed in camouflage fatigues, their packs and weapons by the bunks. Already that morning they had worked out in the makeshift gym on the ground floor.

According to a UN spokesperson, the ceasefire in Bosnia was holding, the report was saying. The images from the Vienna hotel where the latest talks were being held showed the politicians going in and coming out, and the international negotiators smiling and talking about the possibility of a breakthrough. The images from London were slightly different: the British Foreign Secretary commenting on the possibility of peace but being careful in the way he always was. The reporter was summing up the mood in Vienna that morning, quoting direct from the Bosnian Serb delegates. Where the hell have you been for the past year and a half? Finn thought. The politicos have said the same thing a hundred times before and each time they were lying, so why the hell should we believe them this time?

Fielding came in. He was in his late thirties, with the air of physical fitness and strength which exuded from all of them.

‘We’re on standby.’ The relaxation in the room snapped tight. ‘Briefing in five minutes.’

Fielding’s room was one along. The floor was wood, the walls a dull yellow, and the rumble of a UN transport taking off for Zagreb shook the ceiling slightly. There were two maps on the table: the HQ BritFor current situation map, and the Director General of Military Survey town map of Maglaj and the countryside immediately surrounding.

‘Patrol Orders.’

Fielding followed the standard pattern:

Task, beginning with a summary of the operation.

‘Maglaj. The UNMO team there reports that the town has been under continual bombardment since sixteen hundred yesterday. The UNMO team leader has spoken to The Boss, and warned that he may have to request an air strike in order to protect his people. The UNMO boys can’t move from their shelter. The Boss wants an FAC in tonight to assess the situation in case he decides to go for an air strike.’

He ran through the other items under the task heading: country, politics, method of entry, role or target, approximate timings and durations.

He moved to the second heading.

Ground: description of area, enemy and own locations, boundaries, landmarks, minefields, entry RV and LZ – rendezvous and landing zones.

‘You know the area,’ he told the teams. Because they’d been in Bosnia two months and had familiarized themselves with the terrain. Even so he maintained the standard routine.

Met report: weather, moon phase, first and last light. Situation: the area of the operation, enemy forces and friendly forces. Civilians: restrictions, curfews, food situation.

They went through the details on the maps.

‘The towns of Maglaj and Tesanj, fifteen kilometres to the north-west, are in a pocket surrounded by Serb forces to the west, north and east and by combined Serb and Croat forces to the south. Maglaj is in two halves, the old and new towns, divided by a river.’

They focused on the town map of Maglaj: the sweep of the river and the position of the Serb guns, then Fielding moved to the next heading of the briefing.

‘Mission. To locate and identify any Serb artillery, tanks and armour, and to mark it for air strike.’ He repeated the mission, then moved on to the next heading. Execution: general outline, entry and return; RV and LUP procedures – rendezvous point and lying up position. Exit phase, RVs and passwords.

Finn and Janner and their patrols would fly by helicopter to a forward position at the British Battalion base near Vitez. They would wait there for final briefings, plus the green light for insertion. At last light they would chopper the fifty kilometres to the Maglaj pocket. Both patrols would be dropped at the same time, Finn would then take his patrol to the hills on the west of the town, and Janner would take his to the east. The two groups would establish the positions of the guns or tanks shelling the town, and guide the attack planes in by laser if Thorne requested an air strike and the UN approved it.

‘This is a hard routine patrol,’ Fielding told them. Therefore there would be no cooking, because cooking might give their positions to the opposition. They would only take food which they could eat cold: tins of stew, beans, sausages, plus Mars bars.

They moved to the last heading.

Logistics and communications: arms and ammunition, dress and equipment, rations, special equipment including LTM – laser target markers – and medical packs.

‘Any questions?’

‘Why two patrols?’ Finn asked.

‘According to the UNMO team not all the firing positions can be observed from one side of the valley.’

‘What are the chances of an air strike?’ Janner this time. Which is to say, what are the odds we’re going to freeze for nothing?

‘Has to be a first sometime,’ Fielding told him noncommittally.

They went into the details of the helicopter drop-offs and the OPs.

In an ideal world the drop would be at least five kilometres from where they would establish themselves, because helicopters could be seen and heard, therefore shouldn’t land anywhere near where they were headed. Therefore the helicopter would drop them in the middle of the pocket, midway between Maglaj and Tesanj.

‘What else do we know about Maglaj?’

‘Ian Morris took a patrol in two months ago, organized some food drops. His sitrep’s already on the way.’ Sitrep – situation report. ‘You’ll have it before you leave Vitez tonight.’

They returned to their own room, the two teams splitting and Finn and Janner going through their own patrol orders, this time in more detail, each man in the patrol asking questions and throwing in ideas as he saw fit.

An hour later the two teams carried their bergens on to the side of the helicopter landing site and crouched as the Sea King pilot ran through his pre-flight checks, then started the engines. The rotor blades were winding up and rain was falling. Each man was armed with his favourite weapons – Sig Sauers, Heckler and Kochs, Remington pump action shotguns, reduced and fitted with folding butts. In the bergens each carried spare ammunition, ration packs – non-essential items or those they didn’t like discarded – and spare winter clothing. Satcom sets, for communication with Thorne and/or Split via Hereford; hand-held ground-to-air sets for communication with the pilots of the fighter team should an air strike be authorized; and mobiles in case the teams needed to talk to each other. Which was unusual, but which Finn and Janner had decided upon. Laser target markers and spares. Each man carrying his own medi-pack, plus two syrettes of morphine, name tag and wristwatch on parachute cord round the neck. Name tags because it wasn’t a deniable operation.

‘Okay,’ the pilot told the load master. ‘Bring them in.’

The load master jerked his thumbs up, and the two teams moved forward, ducking under what the pilot called the disc, the solid metal cutter of the rotor blades. The door was on the right-hand side, seats opposite it and the rest of the interior stripped bare. They climbed up and sat down, bergens in front of them and weapons on their laps. The loadie clanged the door shut, and the pilot lifted the Sea King off the tarmac, running forward to build air speed, then rising and banking slightly. Behind them the bleak grey of the Adriatic disappeared in the mist and the snow of Middle Bosnia beckoned from the hills in front.

It was eleven in the morning. Time to run the gauntlet of the bridge, time to try to reach the food kitchen. Except that today she wouldn’t, because today the shells were still falling. On the hillside above Maglaj, Kara heard the soft boom of the gun and steeled herself in the silence as the shell rose on its trajectory, then she heard the sound of the express train as it descended, and the thump of the explosion somewhere in the new town.

‘Mummy, my tummy’s hurting again.’ Jovan’s eyes looked at her from beneath the bed.

She kissed him and told him that soon they would eat. She should go outside and get wood, she knew, should fetch more water from the well. At least she had the food she hadn’t eaten yesterday, plus the portion she had brought home for her husband. She diced the two halves of the potato and carrot left from the day before, put them into the pan of beans, and put the pan on the stove.

They would eat first then she would go outside, because by then the shelling might have stopped.

The room was cold, despite the stove. She knelt by the boy and stroked his face. At least his cheeks and his forehead were warm – she would remember the moment later. At least he wasn’t as cold as she feared he might be.

The ground below was cold and hard and bleak.

From Split the Sea King flew east then north-east over the coastal area of Croatia, more or less following the aid supply route codenamed Circle at an altitude of four thousand feet, then picking up Route Triangle, crossing the front line into the Muslim-held area of Bosnia, and skirting the Croat-held pocket defined by the three towns of Novi Travnik, Vitez and Busovaca.

Fifty minutes after leaving the coast, the Sea King dropped on to the LZ, the helicopter landing zone, on the edge of the British Battalion camp near Vitez, the roar of the rotors drowning the sniper fire from the Muslim forces in the ring of hills round the camp and the Croats in the village.

The camp was some two hundred metres square, circled by a perimeter fence of razor wire and dissected by an internal road running north – south. To the south was the parking area for the white-painted APCs; to the north, protected by sangars and clustered tightly round the two-storey former school which now served as the Operations Centre, were the kitchens, dining block and sleeping units. The ground was a sea of mud, the ridges at the sides of the road and walkways frozen hard, and the camp seemed empty; the only movement was at the main gate as a pair of Warriors turned off the road.

Snow was falling and the temperature was below freezing. Welcome to Middle Bosnia, Finn thought. The loadie opened the door, the two patrols grabbed their weapons and bergens and followed the captain who had been waiting for them into the Operations Centre.

The building sounded hollow, footsteps in the gloom and voices echoing. The room they had been assigned was on the first floor. It was just after midday. They locked the equipment in the room then the others went to the cookhouse while Finn was taken to meet the base’s commanding officer.

‘Welcome to BritBat.’ The Coldstream commander had done similar liaison jobs in Northern Ireland. ‘Gather you’re just using us for bed and breakfast. Anything you need …’

Finn thanked him and went to the cookhouse. The room was large, serving hatches on the right, and filled with tables, one area partitioned off for officers. Even here the men – and occasional woman – carried their personal weapons, mostly SA-80s, though some officers wore Brownings, either on their belts or in shoulder holsters. On the right of the door was a table, manned by a private, with a book for visitors and guests. Finn ignored it, picked up an aluminium food dish and plastic cutlery, joined the line at the hatches, and helped himself to a large portion of roast chicken and vegetables. It would be the last hot meal for some time; in the OPs they would eat cold, not even the smallest spark of a flame or heater to alert anyone to their presence. The hall was busy and the tables crowded. He joined the others, ate without speaking, then returned to the room in the Operations Centre.

For the next hour they pored over the map of Maglaj, confirming the drop points with the helicopter team, then working out the grid references of the locations where they would site their OPs. For the hour after that they checked and re-checked their equipment: radios and radio frequencies; spare batteries; laser equipment and PNGs – passive night goggles. Emergency plans in and out if either group ran into trouble.

Fielding flew in at three-thirty. The last briefing began in the room in the Operations Centre ten minutes later. Outside the light was fading fast and the snow was still falling.

‘It’s on,’ he told them. ‘You go at seventeen hundred hours.’ They hunched round the table, coffee in plastic cups. ‘The Boss will wait for your sitreps before he decides whether or not to request an air strike.’

‘Latest UNMO report?’ Janner asked.

‘Maglaj is still under constant shelling. By constant they mean a shell every two to three minutes.’

‘You said Ian Morris took a patrol in in November?’

‘A ground team to laser in aid drops.’ Fielding took the file from his day sack. ‘Nothing much to help you.’ He gave them the report anyway. Outside the snow had stopped and the sky had begun to clear.

Finn skimmed the report and handed it to Janner. ‘The local interpreter, any way we can use her?’

‘Probably not. With any luck you won’t need to go anywhere near the town.’

It was four-thirty, the dark suddenly closing in outside. They checked the equipment again, and confirmed again the radio frequencies on which they would be transmitting. It was fifteen minutes to five. On the LZ on the edge of the camp the Sea King pilot began his pre-flight checks. In low and fast tonight, himself and the other crew wearing night viewing gear, get the hell out as quickly as they could. The load master was outside, looking at him. He held up one finger – engine one starting. Two fingers – engine two. Both engines running. He ran through his cockpit checks then swivelled his fingers at the loadie, saw the thumbs up – all clear left and right. He released the rotor brake and the blades began to turn. In the shadows at the edge of the LZ the eight men appeared, bergens on their backs and weapons in their hands, thin white suits over their combat clothes – not pure white, because pure white stood out in the snow, but off-white and smudged with paint, tape round their weapons to break the shapes.

The load master jumped back in, waited for the pilot’s order, then gave a thumbs up to the group to come forward. The sky above was clear, the first stars showing, though it was still too early for the quarter moon. The two patrols came forward, moving quickly, climbed in and sat on the seats opposite the door, bergens on their backs, weapons across their laps, and PNGs on their heads. The loadie gave Finn a helmet with built-in communications so he could hear the conversations between pilot and crew. Finn pulled off the PNG and put it on. The Sea King was in darkness, no interior or exterior lights. The loadie closed the door, and the Sea King rose from the ice and disappeared into the black. Flying south, away from the Maglaj – Tesanj pocket, then turning west then east on a deception course.

Land on or near the gravel road between Maglaj and Tesanj – Finn rehearsed the procedure again. Door already open. Land, then out fast, the cab hardly touching the ground, the pilot pulling away the second the last man was out. Maintain position, see what the opposition was up to, then separate, his patrol moving off first, then Janner’s. Patrol order, guns carried in the ready position and with safeties off, and the countryside varying shades of green in the night viewing goggles.

They had been airborne thirty minutes, were flying low now, the sides of the valleys above them.

‘Two minutes,’ the pilot told the load master.

Two minutes – the loadie held two fingers up. Finn took off the helmet and put the PNG back on. In the cockpit the pilot and navigator were leaning forward, eyes straining for the changes in terrain. Behind them the loadie pulled open the door and leaned out, also checking.

‘Radio mast one thousand metres at two o’clock.’ The navigator to the pilot.

‘Factory chimney two hundred metres at nine o’clock.’ The loadie.

‘Give them the one minute,’ the pilot told the load master. The loadie swung back in and held up one finger.

‘Confirm location,’ the pilot asked the navigator.

‘Location confirmed.’ The navigator was still staring ahead.

‘Thirty seconds,’ the pilot told them. The rotors were thudding and the wind was gusting through the open door.

‘Tail clear,’ the loadie told the pilot.

The Sea King descended fast and hard.

Stand by – the loadie swung half in and mouthed the words at them.

The wheels hit the ground. ‘Out,’ the pilot told the load master. The loadie turned. Go – he mouthed at them. Go – his thumbs up told them. They were already moving past him, Finn’s team first, then Janner’s. Fanning to the sides of the Sea King in an all-round defence and looking for the enemy, looking for the trap. The blades were screaming above them and the snow was swirling round them. The Sea King lifted off into the blackness. Good cab, Finn thought, good driver. He rose, Ken and Steve and Jim rising with him, nodded to Janner, and began the walk in.

Two of his team were beginning to crack and MacFarlane’s own nerves were stretched beyond what he had ever before experienced. If this is what the shelling was doing to them, then God only knew what it was doing to the civilians who weren’t supposed to be used to this sort of thing.

The UNMO team were still in their base, crouched over coffee and cigarettes.

At around three in the morning there had been a slight lull in the express trains of the artillery shells and the spiralling screaming of the mortars. At six the intensity had picked up again, at seven he had filed his latest situation report via the HF channel through the radio net at Vitez. At eight, as the new day mixed from black to grey to the cold light of winter, he had spoken on the secure line to General Thorne, informing him of the situation, reporting that his team were under severe pressure, and asking whether there had been any Serbian response to the United Nations request of the previous day.

There had been no response, he was informed. FAC teams were in position, however. Thorne was waiting for their assessment, plus confirmation that the offending gun positions had been identified. Once this was received, and if the bombardment had not stopped or the Serbs had not responded, then an air strike request would be formally submitted.

Jovan was still asleep. Kara checked that he was as warm as he could be, and crawled from beneath the bed. Her head thumped with pain and she felt sick and exhausted. In the sky over Maglaj she heard the sound of another express train. Please God, may it end today, please God, may Adin come home. Please may she and her son and her husband come through all this alive and together.

Yesterday she and Jovan had finished the beans, so today she would have to run the gauntlet of the bridge and the shells. Either that or she would have to dig into the supplies of potatoes and carrots she and Adin had grown last summer; but the sacks were already almost empty and the winter was not even half over. She pulled on an extra coat, laced up her boots, waited until another shell had fallen, and went outside. The cold took her breath away. She had two minutes before the next shell, she told herself, three if she was lucky. She grabbed a handful of wood from under the cover at the side of the garden, went back inside, and dumped it by the stove. Wait till after the next shell, she reminded herself. Get on with it, she thought; she had been cowering under the fear of the shells for too long. She went outside again. The bucket by the well was frozen to the ground; she kicked it loose, dropped it down the shaft, and heard the clank as it struck the ice. She pulled it up and dropped it again, heard the ice crack and felt the bucket fill. Heard the whine of the mortar in the sky and knew she should have waited. Froze like the water had frozen then heard the thump in the new town.

When she went back inside Jovan was looking at her. She kissed him and lit the stove. Tonight she shouldn’t let the fire go out, she told herself; she had enough wood to keep it in. And if she ran out she could collect more from the woods on the hillsides above the house. Except that the woods might be mined – she wasn’t sure, but Adin had told her to be careful, not to go anywhere near them. So she couldn’t go to the woods, but she could salvage some scraps from the remnants of the houses down the road, as long as someone else hadn’t beaten her to it.

‘Mummy,’ Jovan’s eyes were large and staring. ‘My tummy’s hurting again.’

‘Where?’ She held him in her arms and felt his forehead. The skin was warm and slightly clammy, not cold as it should have been. She pressed his stomach carefully and gently, and felt the relief when he did not jerk in pain. Probably stomach cramp because he was hungry, she thought. She moved her hand slightly, to the right of his stomach and slightly down, and pressed again, felt him recoil in pain. ‘Don’t worry,’ she told him, told herself. ‘It’ll be all right after I’ve made us something to eat.’ In the sky above she heard the next shell.

‘Location confirmed?’ Finn asked Steve.

‘Confirmed.’

Christ it was cold, but they wouldn’t be here long. And they’d got themselves a good position. Hadn’t been able to dig in, of course, but they hadn’t expected to. Instead they’d found themselves an OP under the lower branches of some trees, which gave them at least some protection from the weather, plus having direct line of sight to the gun positions at the head of the valley and on the other side. Two of them up front and two at the rear covering them.

‘Zero, this is Charlie Two One. Over.’

‘Charlie Two One, this is Zero. Roger. Over.’

Finn spoke the details of his report and the grid references of the targets into the mike of the radio, then pressed the activate button. The computerized set scrambled the message and transmitted it on burst – fifteen seconds of report condensed into a micro-second, no possibility of it being intercepted, and no indication they were there.

‘Zero. Roger. Out.’

His position could have been better, Janner was aware. They’d made it in easily enough, established the grid references of the gun emplacements and confirmed they were in direct line of vision for the lasers. But that was the problem: the ground on his side of the valley didn’t allow for a base and a good OP. So the base was in a small indentation along a contour, from which he couldn’t see the opposition but where the opposition couldn’t see him, and the OP was fifty metres further forward on a slight lip, the two men in it lying motionless and the two behind covering them. The men in the forward position not able to move, but that was standard, except the ground behind the opposition emplacements was marginally higher than the OP, so the opposition was looking down on it and therefore able to see it. But only if they were looking, and they wouldn’t be, because there was no reason to. The only time the opposition would know would be after the air strike, then the guns would be dealt with anyway. So there were no problems.

He contacted base, sent his report, then opened a can of cold beans and began to eat. Hard routine patrol, Fielding had said. Bloody right, Janner thought. Only six hours of light left, though, then he and Max could creep back and join Geordie John and Kev.

Poor bastards, he thought as another round struck the town in the valley below. The barrage was virtually nonstop now. Rather be here than there.

The call to MacFarlane was on the secure net.

‘Update?’ Thorne asked him.

‘Ceasefire violations continuing at a rate of one round every two to three minutes, all incoming.’ MacFarlane was also deliberately official.

‘State of UNMO team?’ Thorne asked.

‘UNMO team in serious danger. Four shells have landed near UNMO position in past hour.’ Four among the many that were still falling. ‘There is a possibility that UNMO team is being targeted. If no response has been received from yesterday’s approach to Bosnian Serbs, I formally request an air strike to protect lives of United Nations Military Observers.’

‘Request being lodged immediately.’

So in two and a half hours, the time it took to process the request, the jets could be airborne from their bases in Italy. Thirty minutes’ flying time, forty maximum; so by one-thirty, two at the latest, the jets could be over Maglaj and silencing the guns.

‘Thank you.’

‘Confirm you are visual with targets,’ Thorne requested Finn and Janner via Hereford.

Confirmed, they both told him.

‘Request for air strike being lodged now. Aircraft on RS 10’ – a readiness state of ten minutes, which meant that the aircraft could be airborne within ten minutes of being scrambled. ‘Aircraft call sign Thunder One.’

Assuming the UN sanction the action.

Jovan was slightly hotter. Kara wiped his forehead and talked to him about what they would do when the summer came and how he and she and his father would walk in the hills and pick the berries and the apples.

The shells and the mortars were still coming in. ‘Roof of UNMO building has just received a direct hit,’ MacFarlane reported on the secure net.

‘Serbian authorities have been informed of request for air strike,’ he was informed. ‘UN procedures in operation. Thunder One on cockpit readiness.’ The pilot in the cockpit and the engines running.

Perhaps he had become accustomed to the sound of the shelling, Janner thought, perhaps it was the temperature. The air cut through his lungs and the cold crept into his body. Two hours to go, he told himself, two hours before the Jaguar zipped over the valley and bombed the shit out of the bastards shelling the town. Two hours before he and Max could crawl out of the OP and join the others in the base position. Not that the base was any warmer than the OP, not that they would risk heating any food there.

It was all a game, of course. The Serbs were calling the UN bluff by not responding to the request to stop the shelling, and in just under two hours now the UN would call the Serbian bluff by taking out the guns in the hills.

The sky was a thin blue and the temperature was plummeting. God how he wanted something hot, Finn thought. Ninety minutes to go before the air strike. The Boss would have talked to both the UN and NATO by now, and the wheels would be rumbling, the pilots already briefed.

Jovan was going to vomit. Kara knew by the way he was holding his stomach and clenching his jaw. She held him in her lap, the bowl in her hand. Probably the food, she told herself, probably because she had put too much potato and carrot in, and he wasn’t used to it. The jet of liquid shot from his mouth. ‘It’s all right, my little one.’ She wiped the saliva from his lips. ‘Now you’ll feel better.’

The air strike was sixty minutes away, assuming the UN procedure took two and a half hours. ‘Another round near UNMO HQ,’ MacFarlane reported. ‘Constant incoming, no cessation.’

‘AWACS in position.’ The Airborne Warning and Control System aircraft sitting high above them. ‘Thunder One on sling shot.’ The Jaguar waiting at the end of the runway.

The sky and the air had the awesome clarity of winter. ‘Forty-five minutes,’ Janner whispered, half to himself and half to Max. ‘Wonder whether Belgrade’s told the bastards on the guns.’

Jovan’s temperature was rising, the sweat was breaking on his forehead and his breathing was slightly shallow. ‘Where’s it hurting?’ Kara asked him. She undid his coat and gently felt his stomach, then his abdomen, to the right and lower. ‘There, Mummy.’ He jerked away in pain.

Thirty minutes to go – Janner counted down.

‘Mission approved,’ he and Finn were informed on the secure net. ‘Confirm laser coding.’ To ensure that the pilot received the correct target positioning.

‘Charlie Two Two. Laser coding confirmed. Over.’ Janner on burst, the transmission lasting a millisecond.

‘Charlie Two One. Confirmed. Over.’ Finn.

The guns pounded again

‘Thunder One airborne,’ the FAC and UNMO teams were informed.

‘Confirm you are still in danger,’ MacFarlane was requested.

‘Confirmed.’

So what was she going to do? Kara held Jovan close and rocked him gently. Try to get him to the medical centre in Maglaj new town, which would mean running the risk of the snipers in the daylight and the guns even in the dark? Or stay here and pray the fever didn’t develop and the pain went away?

The guns were still pounding.

‘Thunder One over Adriatic,’ the FAC and UNMO teams were informed. ‘Thunder One crossing coast. Thunder One over Bosnian air space.’

‘Magic Five Five.’ The Jaguar pilot to the communications AWACS. ‘This is Thunder One entering the area.’

‘Roger, Thunder One. This is Magic Five Five. You are cleared to contact Charlie Two One and Charlie Two Two.’

‘Charlie Two One. This is Thunder One. Radio check.’

Thank God, Finn and Janner thought.

‘Roger, Thunder One. This is Charlie Two One. Loud and clear.’

‘Charlie Two Two. This is Thunder One. Radio check.’

‘Roger, Thunder One. This is Charlie Two Two. Loud and clear. Check position.’

‘This is Thunder One. Now thirty miles south of Maglaj.’ The Jaguar travelling at a mile every six seconds and losing altitude for the run-in.

‘Roger, confirm target position,’ Janner requested.

The first target – Janner’s target – was camouflaged in a yard at the side of two houses, both empty except for the gun crews.

‘Target as briefed.’

‘Okay, Thunder One.’ Janner switched on the laser marker. ‘Lima on.’

The pilot saw the cross in the HUD, the head-up display, the L to the right indicating the laser was operating. He checked the code and selected the rocket on the weapons panel.

Four miles and twenty-four seconds out. Cross and L in HUD – he checked automatically. Everything okay.

Can’t see target but I can see buildings, he thought.

The ground was a hundred feet below and he was following the course of the valley.

Three miles and eighteen seconds out.

I can see two buildings where the target should be, he thought.

Two miles and twelve seconds.

I can’t see any guns. I can only see two houses.

One mile and six seconds.

Kara heard the thunder. What is it, Jovan asked. I don’t know, she told him.

‘Aborting run. No target in sight. I can only see two houses.’ He was already a mile past the target.

‘Yeah,’ he heard the man on the ground. ‘The guns are camouflaged in a yard to your left of the houses.’ And you should have known that, because it was on my report. Except somewhere along the line somebody forgot to tell you.

‘Okay, Charlie Two Two. Coming round again. With you in forty seconds.’

‘Okay, Thunder One. Lima on.’

In the winter light, the sun glinted on the laser sight.

‘Thunder One. This is Magic Five Five.’ The command and control AWACS. ‘Are you task complete?’

The Jaguar was five miles and thirty seconds from the target.

‘Negative, Magic Five Five. This is Thunder One. Will be in thirty seconds.’

‘Thunder. This is Magic. Abort. Abort.’

The Jaguar was four miles and twenty-four seconds out.

Christ, the pilot thought. ‘Magic, confirm mission abort and reason.’ Because someone – somehow – might be playing silly buggers.

Three miles and eighteen seconds.

At the head of the valley the sun glinted again on the laser sights.

‘Thunder One. This is Magic Five Five. You are to abort. I time authenticate Whisky Juliet.’

Each operation was coded for such a situation, the code changed every two minutes. The pilot checked the authentication code. ‘Confirm reason for abort,’ he asked.

Two miles and twelve seconds out.

‘Thunder One. This is Magic Controller. Just fucking abort.’ Meaning how the hell do I know?

One mile and six seconds.

In the house Kara heard the thunder again. Listen, she told Jovan. The planes are coming to stop the guns. The planes are coming to save us.

‘Charlie Two One and Two. This is Thunder One.’ The Jaguar was past the target and climbing hard above the hills to the north.

What the hell is this? Janner wondered.

What the hell’s going on? Finn almost swore.

‘Bad news. Just been told to abort the mission.’

‘Why?’

‘Sorry. Have to exit area. Good luck.’

Because the negotiators in Vienna have said they were on the verge of a breakthrough, so do nothing to rock the boat, Janner thought. He waited for the next salvo from the hills. One minute, two, three.

The guns have stopped, Kara thought. We’re going to live, going to survive. Adin’s coming home and little Jovan will be okay. Nine minutes since the last rounds, ten. Suddenly fifteen, twenty. The planes have done it, Kara whispered to Jovan: the United Nations have saved us. The blue of the sky had turned to purple and the purple was deepening into black, the first stars above them. Told you we could handle it, Janner knew the negotiators in Vienna would be telling each other, told you we could call their bluff. Kara held Jovan in her arms. Almost laughing, almost crying, not sure which but not caring.

The twilight was gone and the night was cold and hard, the silence hanging over the valley and the stars in the sky above it. They had already eaten today, Kara told her son, but tonight they would eat again, tonight they would celebrate. Then the fire in his forehead would cool and the pain in his stomach would go away.

The moon was coming up, pale and ghostly.

‘In light of Serbian ceasefire at Maglaj, UN has ordered no further air action, therefore withdraw immediately,’ Finn and Janner were told. ‘UN have also decreed chopper pick-ups in Maglaj – Tesanj pocket might be deemed provocative, therefore patrol back through lines.’

‘Get something inside us before we go,’ Finn told his team. They took out the ration packs and opened the tins. Shone the torches on the map and plotted the route out.

‘Time to go.’ Janner’s team confirmed the exfiltration and began to leave, Janner leading and the team strung at five-yard intervals behind him.

Jovan’s temperature was suddenly soaring. The sweat was running from him and she could barely hear his breathing. ‘Is it hurting again?’ Kara asked him. ‘Where’s it hurting?’ She undid his coat and felt his stomach, then his abdomen, to the right and lower. ‘There, Mummy.’ He was crying now, clinging to her, the fever burning. At least the shelling was over, at least she could get him to the doctor in Maglaj new town. At least at night the sniper wouldn’t be waiting for her to cross the bridge. ‘It’ll be all right,’ she told him. Please come home soon, she prayed to her husband, please be all right. She lifted the boy carefully and dressed him in his warmest clothes and coat. The night was dark now, but there was no time to wait till morning. She pulled on her own coat and scarf. What about Adin, what about if her husband came home that night? She hugged the boy again then sat at the table and began to write a note.

The thunder came from nowhere, the whine of the mortar and the express train of the shell. Oh no, she almost screamed. Not the shelling again. Not on the town. Not when she had to get Jovan to hospital.

Mortar, incoming – Janner heard the whine. ‘Down,’ he was shouting, already hitting the ground himself.

The mortar landed fifty metres away. Another shell was coming in, striking the ground a hundred metres down the slope. The bastards weren’t going for the town, they were going for him. He and the others were up and moving, fast but orderly, running for the slight dip where they had established the base, the dip that might give them some protection. More crumps, suddenly more whines. The dip was fifty metres away, they were slipping on the ice, crashing into the branches of the trees. The mortars were landing again, closer this time. He heard the whine then saw the flash in front.

Oh Christ, he was aware he was thinking coldly and calmly, oh no. Not Kev, not Geordie John. The bodies were catapulting in the air, the earth and ice showering over him and the shrapnel hitting him. Oh Christ not me. The pain was somewhere on his face, somewhere in his chest, somewhere round his legs. Another mortar round was coming in. Head down and pray, he told himself, then check the others and get to the bunker. If he could find the others, if he could move.

The round hit the ground twenty metres from him and he felt the shock, waited two seconds then looked up. Max was on the ground five metres in front of him, moving slightly and moaning. At least he assumed it was Max, because Kev and Geordie John had been in front when the first round took them out. He half stood, made sure his legs weren’t giving way, and shuffled forward. ‘Legs have gone,’ Max told him. ‘Bit fucked up. Can’t move.’ Another round was coming in. Janner ignored it, unstrapped Max’s bergen and grabbed his shoulder, tried to lift him, pull him. Tried to move him whichever way he could. It’ll hurt like hell, old friend, he didn’t need to say, but no option. Move if you can, he didn’t need to tell Max, give me all the help you can.

The pain in his chest was gone, his body was suddenly numb, but his legs were holding. He was pulling, hauling. The dip in the ground ten metres from him, five metres, another round coming in and Max trying to walk, trying to get to his own shattered knees and help them both. Janner passed something, cold and bloody, realized it was Kev. Another round was coming in. This is the one, this time they’ve got us. He jerked Max forward and they slid into the dip.

‘Maglaj ceasefire broken,’ MacFarlane reported on both nets.

‘Friendly forces under enemy fire,’ Finn informed Hereford. ‘Repeat. Friendly forces under enemy fire.’ The other men in the patrol were checking the locations of the offending mortar and artillery piece. ‘Serbs deliberately targeting Charlie Two Two.’

It was too late to call an air strike, the bloody decision-makers at the UN would be too busy wining and dining to make any decisions. Only one thing to do and one way to do it. Only one way of stopping the guns shelling the men on the other side of the valley.

‘You have the positions?’ he asked the others.

‘Not moved since we targeted them earlier.’

‘Charlie One to Charlie Two.’ He used the motorola. ‘Charlie One to Charlie Two. Over.’

‘Charlie Two receiving.’ Janner was on the floor of the dip, Max half across him and blood everywhere.

‘Charlie One. What are you like?’

‘Two missing, presumed dead. Rest of patrol in minimal cover. One injured, I’m also wounded.’

‘You can walk?’

‘I can try.’

‘Give me twenty minutes.’ Which was a bloody eternity. ‘When they stop shelling, get as far out as you can. Romeo Victor is a group of houses over the ridge.’ He gave Janner the co-ordinates.

Romeo Victor – RV – rendezvous point.

‘Got that,’ Janner told him.

‘Oboe Oboe,’ Finn told Hereford. ‘Bringing out own wounded.’ No code ranked above OO. When an SAS patrol signalled Oboe Oboe everything but everything stopped. ‘Repeat. Oboe Oboe. Bringing out own wounded. Hot extraction. Landing site not secure.’ He gave them the details. ‘Will confirm co-ordinates. Radio silence from this point. Repeat. Radio silence.’ Because where we’re going and what we’re going to do, we don’t want anyone knowing. Because if they do then we’re dead as well.

Time to forget the UN. Time to ignore the rules. Time to cut throats.

‘Okay, let’s do it.’

The shells and mortars were falling on the town again. Falling on somewhere else as well, somewhere in the hills, which she couldn’t understand. But falling on the town again. Kara heard the thuds and felt the vibrations. Please God no, she prayed. Please God tell me what to do. Unless I get Jovan to the doctor’s he’s going to die, but if I try he’ll be killed anyway.

‘Finn and the boys are on the way,’ Janner told Max. ‘Be out of here soon.’ He waited till the next round exploded then looked out of the hollow, shouted for Kev and Geordie John. Kept shouting for thirty seconds then ducked inside again as another round exploded.

Kev’s body – assuming it was Kev – was ten metres away. It would be dangerous, but Kev would have done the same for him. Just enough time to get out and check if Kev had a pulse, if Kev was alive. So what would he do if he was? One he might be able to get to the RV, two no. And what about Geordie John? ‘Be back,’ he told Max. He waited till the next round exploded, slid out of the hollow and pulled himself along the ground. Pull Kev back in, which might be difficult, or waste time finding the pulse? Half Kev’s head was missing, Kev hadn’t even known what hit him. Geordie John presumably the same. Janner rolled back and tumbled into the hollow as the next round landed.

The bridge across the river, a kilometre and a half from the town, was thin and rickety, and swinging slightly in the night, the snow ghostly in the PNGs. The river beneath was cold and grey and running fast, but the bridge itself might be wired. Finn knelt and felt carefully around and under the first sections, the others covering him from the shadows. There were no wires. He nodded and ran across, allowing for the swing of the bridge, then slipped into the dark and covered the next man. There was no cold now, just the adrenalin. The last man came over and they turned up the slope.

The sites were a hundred metres apart, the support huts fifty metres back from them. Himself and Steve to take the first, Finn indicated, Ken and Jim to deal with the second. Knife job, no noise. Because if the guns simply stopped firing the soldiers in the back-up hut might think the gunners on duty had received a change of order, whereas if there was small-arms fire they might investigate. The guns were still pounding. One minute – they set their watches on count down.

Twenty minutes, Finn had said, therefore five minutes to go. The bastards had his range now and were pounding the shells in. ‘You ready?’ Janner asked Max. He’d discarded almost everything, destroyed the radios. Four minutes to go. ‘It’s going to hurt like buggery,’ he told Max, ‘but it’s the only way.’ It’s going to hurt me as well, because I don’t know where my head is going and the pain is in my legs again and my chest feels like it doesn’t exist.

He ducked as the next round came in.

‘Ready, Max?’

Christ, Max was a mess, his legs hanging disjointed and his face and body mangled as hell.

‘Ready, Janner.’

He half-lifted Max so that his body was across his shoulders and Max could still carry his Heckler, still use it if he needed, and began counting since the last round. A minute between rounds now, never more than a minute and twenty seconds. In the distance the other guns and mortars pounded the town. Thirty seconds since the last round. Forty-five. Minute gone. He waited for the next incoming round. Finn would have done it. Finn and the boys wouldn’t let him down. One minute twenty, one thirty.

Go – he heard himself shout, heard himself scream.

He was out of the bunker and trying to run. Max bouncing on his shoulders and telling him he was okay. Up the slope of the hill fifty metres, then turn along the contour line – he had worked it out on the map, knew exactly what he had to do, drummed it into his head so he would do it automatically. Christ, Max was heavy. Christ, his legs and his chest and his head were suddenly hurting. He was running slower now, little more than a stagger. Control it, he told himself, keep it calm and measured, just get up the first fifty metres and you’re okay. Still no incoming rounds, still the wonderful blissful silence. Except for the pounding in his head and the heavy metallic rasping in his lungs. Thanks, Finn, thanks, lads. He turned right, along the hillside, the woods green in the night sights and his feet slipping on the ice.

‘You okay?’ he asked the man on his back. ‘Okay,’ Max told him. The rounds going into the town were like echoes in his head, the trees around him and the slope of the hillside making it difficult to move. He was walking now, holding on to the instructions Finn had given him and the directions he had instilled into his brain. Can’t be far now, halfway there already, probably more. He was no longer walking, was on his knees, forcing himself forward. Bit like selection: when you think you’ve had it, that’s the point you start really going. Bit like counter-interrogation: get your story fixed in your head and stick to it. So he was going well, going great guns, was getting there.

He was bent forward now, was on his hands and knees, the pain tearing at his chest and the ice and trees cutting into him. Don’t think about it, don’t think about anything. Just keep going. Finn and the lads will be waiting at the RV, and the chopper will already be airborne. Nice pint of beer at the end, nice fag to go with it. He was crying now, on his face and his front, reaching forward with one hand and grabbing anything, pulling himself and Max on, Heckler still in the other hand. Doing well, doing great, you old bugger. Christ he must have passed the RV point a hundred years ago. He reached forward again and grabbed the tree stump, pulled himself and Max up to it, lifted his face from the ice and reached forward again, felt for the next thing he could, pulled himself forward again. Tell Max to mind his legs on the stump, part of his mind warned him, tell Max to keep his legs clear.

The shelling on the town was continuing but the shelling on the hillside had stopped. Jovan’s fever was burning now, his breathing shallow and his lips moving, as if he was praying. Kara knelt by him and wiped his face and hands. Don’t worry, she told him, everything will be all right soon; you’ll be okay soon. She wet the flannel and held it against his lips. Heard the scream.

Like an animal caught in a trap. Like a fox when its leg is torn off. Except that it wasn’t an animal. It was a man.

Someone’s hurt – her mind was numb with the cold and the shelling and the shock. Someone’s been hit by a shell. Except there hadn’t been a shell before the scream. Her mind was still numb. It’s all right, she told Jovan, everything is fine. She dipped the flannel into the water again and cooled his face again.

Adin – it came out of the darkness, out of the black. Adin was outside. Adin had left the front line and was coming home. Adin was hurt, was trying to reach her and Jovan even though he was wounded.

Not Adin, it couldn’t be Adin, because Adin wouldn’t come that way. But could she take the risk …

She smiled at the boy and kissed him. ‘I’m going to get something.’ She wiped his forehead again. ‘I’ll be back in two minutes to tell you a story.’

She pulled on her coat and laced her boots. Made sure Jovan was comfortable and opened the door, slipped through it and closed it quickly so as not to let the cold in. Crouched in the dark and listened for the sound, listened for her husband.

‘Sorry, Janner.’ Max’s voice shuddered as his body was shuddering.

‘All right, Max. No probs. Almost there.’ The shells were coming in again, falling on the old town, falling near them. He was hardly moving now. One hand, the hand with the gun, trying to reach out and the other holding Max’s wrist and trying to pull him. The night sights were getting in the way, but he and Max needed them to see where they were going. Fuck me, part of his mind was saying, the places you take me. Ten green bottles, part of his brain was singing as he had sung with his wife during the last stages of labour when their first child had been born. Ten green bottles hanging on the wall, and if one green bottle should accidentally fall. You’re losing it, Janner; stop thinking about Jude, stop thinking about the kids. Because if you do you’re finished, you’re on the way out. The shrapnel was cutting through his chest now and the shells were bursting round him, his head was down and his face was scraping on the ice. You’re making it, he told himself. Just keep it up, just keep going.

The shell was coming in. He heard it explode. Heard the other explosion which it detonated. Oh Christ, he thought. Oh Jesus bloody Christ. I’m in a minefield.

Kara heard Adin, saw Adin. Dark and black against the snow and the ice. The shells and the noise and the hell pounding down on him, pounding down on them both. She was lying on the ground, wriggling forward trying to protect herself from the bombs and the guns. Adin, she whispered, no noise coming out. It’s me, Adin; please move, Adin. Don’t be dead, Adin. The shell was coming in, close to them. She ignored it, ignored everything.

Saw him.

Christ the pain in his head and his legs and his chest. Forget the pain, pain only exists when you acknowledge it. Got to get to the lads, can’t let the lads down after all they did so you could get this far, can’t let Max down. Christ the bloody awful fucking pain. Don’t give up, don’t give up now, don’t ever give up. Because you’re regiment, because you’re a Cornishman. Almost there now, Max. Almost made it.

He saw her.

Oh God – she felt the fresh fear. Not Adin, not anyone she knew. Not even a man. The shape in front of her was black and red, no face, especially no eyes. Just the face of something from another world staring at her.

Christ – he was reacting automatically, instinctively. Heckler coming up and finger on trigger.

The fear still froze her. Froze her body and her mind. Why no face, the panic screamed at her; why no eyes?

Janner’s finger was easing on the trigger, mind and body functioning instinctively.

She understood why she couldn’t see a face, why she couldn’t see the eyes. She had seen someone like this before, seen four men like this before. Except then they had been helping her, then they had been disappearing into the woods at night, then the planes had flown over and the food had parachuted down.

‘Ian …’ she remembered the leader’s name. ‘English?’ she asked. ‘Aid,’ she said. ‘Food drops?’

Except that it wasn’t Ian. Except that the man two metres from her was wounded and in pain. And the man behind him, the man he was carrying, was even more badly injured.

‘English?’ she asked again, her voice almost lost in the fear.

The eyes looking at him were wide with fright and the face framed green in the PNG was a woman’s.

‘English?’ Janner heard the words again. ‘Food drop?’

Ian Morris took a patrol in to organize a food drop – part of his brain pulled out of the numbness. Ian Morris had an interpreter – he remembered the briefing. A woman, not sure where she lived because she met them at their operating base.

‘English,’ he said. ‘Friend of Ian’s. Help me.’ The voice seemed distant, as if it was no longer his. ‘Two of us. Can’t move any more.’ It was as if the night was still and silent, as if the rounds were not falling round and on them. Got to trust her, got to trust someone. He took the pressure off the trigger and stretched out his hand towards her.

Their fingers touched, palms sliding across each other. Hers cold with ice and fear, his red and slimed in blood. She held his wrist, he hers, grip clamped like a vice. He tried to help, tried to pull himself and Max forward.

‘Minefield,’ he told her.

Oh God – she remembered what Adin had said, remembered the different explosions as she had left the house, as if the shells had detonated something else in the woods.

She let go his hand and he knew she was going to leave him. Can’t blame her, a distant part of his brain told him. On her own and she might make it back; her and one of them and the chances were falling; her and two and they were all dead.

Another shell landed thirty metres away.

‘You have a knife?’ she asked. What am I doing, she thought. Why am I doing it?

What the hell did she want a knife for? Janner let go Max’s arm, felt in his belt, and gave her the knife. ‘Don’t move,’ she told him. Christ – he understood why she wanted the knife and what she was going to do.

Slowly, carefully, she eased the tip of the knife into the ground, pressed it through the ice. Repeated the procedure. Made sure the area between her and Janner was clear. Then she turned and edged up the track made by her knees and hands.

There were no mines, she began to think; perhaps Adin was wrong; perhaps they hadn’t been laid. There were no mines, part of Janner’s brain told him; he’d been wrong about the different explosion. He saw the moment she froze. Sensed – split second before – the metallic contact as the tip of the knife struck something. Leave us, part of him wanted to tell her, save yourself. Except save herself and he was finished. Why was she doing this, she wondered; why was she risking her life when Jovan was sick less than a hundred metres away? She marked the location of the contact with her scarf and moved past it, suddenly rigid with fear and almost unable to move. Came to the place where the animal tracks were all along the route, and therefore where she was safe. Except that animals were lighter than men. She turned and crept back to the two men.

‘Can’t move both of you.’ She ducked as another round came in. ‘I’ll take you, come back for the other.’

Can’t abandon Max, Janner thought. And if she takes one, no way she’s coming back for a second. ‘Can’t leave Max,’ he told her.

‘I’ll take Max and come back for you.’

No way she would come back, he understood, but no way he could get Max out by himself. No way he and Max would get out without her. And if she got Max out then he might just make it by himself.

‘Okay.’

She crawled round him, half-dragged half-carried Max along the track to the point marked by the handkerchief. Don’t touch it, she told herself, make sure he doesn’t. Another shell came in. She eased him round the scarf, made sure his trailing leg didn’t touch it, hauled him clear of the woods and across the neck of open ground to the house. God he was heavy, God she could barely pull him. She opened the door, lifted him inside, and laid him on the floor.

Okay, Janner, he told himself. Nice and steady and you’ll make it. His chest and legs and head were hurting again, and he could barely move. Christ, he couldn’t move. Remember the scarf she put down, remember to be careful when you get there. Except he wasn’t going to get there, wasn’t going to get anywhere. In the sky above he heard another mortar, ducked and flinched as it landed and exploded, felt the tremor as it exploded. Close, he thought; too bloody close. Don’t give up, a voice was telling him, never give up. His legs were trying to stand, his fingers were gripping the ice and his arms were trying to pull him. His body was shuddering and he knew he wasn’t moving. The rounds were coming in again. Fuck, he thought, he was finished, and they hadn’t even launched an air strike against the fucking guns that were trying to kill him. Fuck – the strength was almost gone now. Fuck – he was going to die. One more effort, he told himself, one more try. He stretched out his hand and felt the trembling, felt the shaking. Felt the woman’s hand grab his.

‘Help me,’ she told him.

Didn’t think you were coming back, he almost told her. If a squaddie was doing what she was doing he’d get a DSO, he thought, perhaps an MC. And if it had been in war and witnessed by a superior officer, possibly even the big one, possibly the Victoria Cross. ‘Okay,’ he said.

Even though he was now barely conscious, she noticed, he did not let go of his weapon.

The shells were still falling. They were almost at the scarf, were round it, the trees like ghosts above them and the rounds falling round. This isn’t Bosnia, Janner thought, this isn’t 1994; this is 1914, this is bloody World War One. They were past the scarf and almost at the edge of the woods, were through the garden and stumbling into the house, Jovan’s eyes staring frightened at her. ‘It’s all right,’ Kara told him, told the two men. She moved the table back to allow them more room, knelt by them and tried to help them. Both were badly injured, bones broken and bodies ripped by shrapnel. Oh God how can I help them? Oh God what can I do for them? What about my poor Jovan? Where is my husband?

It’s all right, Janner tried to tell her, someone’s coming for us. The blood frothed at his mouth and he made himself stop crying with the pain. It’s okay, he tried to turn, tried to tell Max. Finn and the lads will be here soon.

She knelt by them and wet their lips, knelt by Jovan and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

The door opened and the two men came in. Guns in their hands, packs on their backs and goggles over their eyes. Moving quickly, closing the door and checking the room.

‘Picked up your trail,’ Finn took off his bergen and knelt by Janner. ‘It’s okay, Ken and Jim are wiping it, chopper’s due in soon.’ He pulled open Janner’s jacket, took the syrettes from the parachute cord round Janner’s neck, and gave him the morphine. First rule, even if the injured man was your best friend. Always use his morphine on him, never your own, because you didn’t know when you yourself might need yours. To his left Steve did the same for Max, then marked the M on his forehead so the medics would know what he’d been given.

‘Minefield,’ Janner struggled to tell Finn.

‘It’s okay,’ Finn calmed him. ‘They know.’

‘The woman saved us,’ Janner tried to tell him. ‘The woman brought us in.’ His voice and breath were slipping. ‘Interpreter for the food drops.’ The morphine was relaxing him. ‘Carried us out through the minefield. Max first. Then came back for me.’

Two more men came. ‘Clean,’ they told Finn. They slipped off their packs and pulled the makeshift stretchers together.

‘Oboe Oboe,’ Finn called Hereford again. ‘Bringing out own casualties.’ He gave Hereford Janner’s and Max’s NAAFI numbers, the codes agreed before, so that Hereford would already be checking blood groups, already getting things rolling. ‘Cas-evac and hot extraction.’ He confirmed the six-figure grid reference. Over the hill and into the valley on the other side. ‘Confirm landing site not, repeat not, secured.’ So the crew would know what they were flying into.

‘Romeo Victor two three four five hours,’ he was told. ‘Cab already airborne. Medics on board.’

‘Moving now.’

Kara held Jovan close against her and watched, body numb and mind bemused, Jovan pouring sweat and jerking in pain, and Kara trying to comfort him. Finn emptied his bergen and gave her the remaining ration packs, the other men doing the same.

‘What’s your name?’ he asked.

She was still confused, still frightened. Still numb. ‘Kara,’ she told him.

‘You were Ian’s interpreter for the food drops?’

‘Yes.’ The response was a long time coming.

The others laid Janner and Max on the stretchers.

‘We owe you, Kara. Janner and Max and I. And we’ll never forget. Anything you want you have. Anything you need you get.’

‘Take my son with you,’ she asked him. ‘He’s ill, he needs help. He’s dying, and there’s nothing I can do.’

Time to move it, one of the men was telling Finn, time to get going.

‘I’m sorry,’ Finn told her. ‘I can’t.’

Because it’s going to be rough anyway getting to the RV. Because there may not be enough space in the chopper. Because we’d have to take you with us. Because the shit’s going to hit the fan anyway after what we did on the hill to stop the bastards shelling Janner and Max. Because we don’t know what the hell is waiting for us between here and the RV or at the RV itself.

‘You said if there was anything I wanted, anything I needed.’ Her voice was suddenly firmer, suddenly like ice.

He was picking up his end of the makeshift stretcher. ‘Yes.’

‘I asked you for something and you said no.’ The voice colder, stronger.

Oh Christ, Finn thought.

‘I saved yours,’ Kara stood in front of him and stopped him leaving. ‘Now you won’t save mine.’

Because I can’t. Because my sole function at the moment is to save Janner and Max. Because my sole responsibility and my sole allegiance is to them. But you said you owed, he knew the woman would say. Anything I want I can have. Anything I need I get. And all I’ve asked is one small thing, but you’ve refused me.

‘I’ll be back,’ he told her.

Why commit yourself, Finn? Why say that? Why say anything?

‘When?’ She refused to move, refused to let him go. ‘My son is dying, like your people are dying.’ Therefore tomorrow, next week, next month, will be too late.

‘Tonight.’

‘What’s your name?’ she asked.

‘Finn.’

‘Don’t let me down, Finn.’

She stood aside and opened the door for him.