Fortress (3 page)

They were now within range of the giant arc lights that swept the area round the gate, the light bouncing off the sweat on their faces. Any other day, the guards in the towers would have seen them. Loudspeakers would have ordered them to halt and identify themselves. But this wasn’t any day.

A brother will prepare our welcome
, the Leader had told them.
The gates will open: no guards will fire
. They must wait for a signal to approach. Three flashes five seconds apart, and the same a minute later. They were all commanded to watch so no one would miss it. On the third they were to move forward, like a detachment of real ANA soldiers returning from a perimeter patrol. Never mind that they were on foot and it was night. The ANA were famous among the other nationalities for doing strange things.

Beyond the wire, the lights of the airfield shone with a ghostly glow. Even at night they appeared to shimmer, the heat of the day still rising. Below they could make out the sharp outlines of the Ospreys, the Huey gunships, Cobras and Harrier jump jets, loaded with rockets and bombs. These machines – unassailable, so the enemy believed – were their targets.

Ayna saw it first. Three flashes a few metres to the left of the gate. He tugged Isa’s tunic and Isa squeezed the forearm of the Leader.

Who is he, the man on the other side?
Ayna had asked.
How is he our brother if he is with the enemy?

We have many brothers everywhere
, came the Leader’s reply.
They are biding their time, waiting to act. As well as courage, they have great patience, which is why we will win and the glory will be ours
.

Now they advanced again, in twos, as they had been instructed, like tired soldiers after a long day. But none of them was tired. Their hearts were beating fiercely. What they all knew was that this was their last march, and that the end would be soon – and spectacular.

5

Tom set a course for the gym near the perimeter of the flight line. He jogged down a street lined with rows of Portakabins occasionally interrupted by the odd ISO container. The pervasive whiff of aviation fuel hung in the air along with a thin clouding of dust. He’d known bases of all kinds around the world, but none on this scale. This was a vast fortress capable of handling an entire invasion force. Its sheer size alone should have been enough to get the message across to the enemy about who was boss round here. And despite all the talk about a phased withdrawal, construction was still going on, the runways being extended, rumour had it, so B-52s could be based there in the event of war with Iran.

Yet Tom felt its very enormity, along with its arsenal of weaponry, created a false sense of security. Last week they had deployed to a forward patrol base, under canvas; no air-conditioned gym, just a desert rose to piss in and furniture improvised from wooden pallets and the wire frames of the Hescos. At least you knew what was at stake out in the field. He preferred it to this prefabricated metal city in the desert, a giant, very costly white elephant that the bean-counters in Whitehall and Washington longed to be rid of. But despite the politicians’ proclamations of ‘mission accomplished’ and the start of a phased handover to the Afghan National Army, to Tom it didn’t look like this long war was anywhere near done.

A moonless sky hung over the camp, the moisture in the air reflecting the dull orange glow that came from the floodlights. At the end of the street of Portakabins a wide open space bordered on the USAF maintenance compound. To the left, about fifty metres away, was the South Gate, and straight ahead the gym, about another three minutes if he upped his pace. A small detachment of troops crossed the end of the street and turned towards the airfield. Just from their size Tom could tell they were ANA. Generations of deprivation and the habitual lack of decent nutrition had kept their average height several inches below that of the other nationalities. Once they had cleared he saw another figure in front of the gym, bareheaded, carrying a torch but no obvious weapon. The figure lit a cigarette, then lifted his head to blow a long plume of smoke up into the night.

Qazi.

That morning Tom had witnessed him being fêted by the US camp commander, Major General Carthage, in front of a gathering that included a number of press – quite a large number.

‘You are looking at the future, gentlemen.’ Carthage, towering over Qazi, patted him on the shoulder in a way that made Tom squirm, as if he was his pet. Qazi stood expressionless, with a faraway look in his eyes that revealed nothing.

‘Second Lieutenant Amhamid Qazi, like many in the ANA, enlisted out of patriotism and devotion to his country. As a member of the first Commando Battalion of the 3rd Brigade Quick Reaction Force he sure has shown us what he’s made of and just what the ANA is capable of doing.’

Tom had felt himself cringe even more as he watched Carthage pour treacly praise over the Afghan.

‘… and then his weapon became inoperable. What did he do? Did he stop? The hell he did. He charged right on, leading his men up the ridge, heedless of the enemy fire all around …’

After Carthage had come to the end of his sermon, Qazi had addressed the group in perfect English. ‘My companion soldiers were very brave and energetic, and they are very eager to bring peace and stability to the area, to Afghanistan and to the region as a whole.’

Carthage had started to clap. He was keen to get on with his day, but Qazi wasn’t done. Carthage lowered his hands and kept smiling.

‘In fact, sir, Afghanistan’s forces will soon be in a position to defend every province and not allow any foreign invaders to use our country ever again.’

Carthage’s lipless smile twitched at the edges, working hard to pretend he hadn’t caught the thinly veiled slight.

Now Qazi appeared to be alone, finishing his cigarette under the ghostly orange of the floodlights. He turned and levelled his gaze as Tom approached.

‘
As-salamu’ alaykum
.’

‘Peace be with you too,’ replied Qazi in English.

‘Saw you in front of the cameras today.’

‘I do what I can.’ He shrugged as if he didn’t want to be reminded and took another long pull on the roll-up pinched between his fingers as he wiped his other hand on his thigh. ‘The major general was very generous.’ He snorted. ‘I saw on CNN that the war’s getting closer to home for you now.’

‘Sad, but true. The only way this ends is if we stand together.’

Qazi looked blank.

‘
Shona be shona
.’

Qazi grinned, recognizing the ISAF motto in Dari. ‘“Shoulder to shoulder.” Of course.’ He turned back to the end of his cigarette.

Tom had learned a fair bit about the ANA on his tours. They were a mixed bunch, from various tribal backgrounds, and not by any means always loyal to the government. Some pragmatic families had hedged their bets by sending one son to the ANA and another to fight with the Taliban. But the biggest attraction was the $240 a month, not bad in a country where pay averaged $614 a year.

Like soldiers the world over, they complained about everything – it was part of the job description – but they had now actually begun to look more like soldiers. They didn’t always use body armour and helmets but they had them, along with boots. They told Tom they didn’t like the American-issued M16s and, when he asked why, explained they weren’t strong enough: the Russian AKs they were used to didn’t break when they used them to hit people.

Tom nodded as he went past the Afghan, up the steps into the gym. Inside, the kit was all new, smelling strongly of fresh paint and rubber. A recent shipment from the US, it was all set to do battle with the hearts – and, more importantly, stomachs – of the American troops. But he was the only one there. Sure enough, thought Tom, at this time of day they’d be more likely working on their endless appetites. There was no sign of Dave either. Maybe he was in the can. He looked at the brand new weights, then selected a couple of dumbbells, nothing too heavy. He weighed them in each hand as he carried them over to the bench, set them down while he adjusted the height, and sat. Then, with his spine flat against the pad, he reached down and lifted the weights. Gripping them not too hard, his elbows aligned with his hips, he brought them up, breathing out as he lifted. Held them there, then lowered them, breathing in as they came down. Sweat beads immediately popped out on his forehead; he was out of shape. If nothing else, it would dissipate the tension after the talk with Delphine and tire him out enough for a decent sleep. He repeated the move ten times, then ten more. Even though it hurt he embarked on another ten. Just as he raised his hands, the distant ‘crump’ of a muffled explosion broke the silence somewhere to the west.

He put down the weights and stood up, just as a second, far bigger, bang rocked the gym, blasting out the windows. He dived out of the way of the flying splinters, snatched up his weapon and, still crouching, ran to the door. A huge column of fiery smoke funnelled into the night sky. Pieces of debris rained down. And as he stepped back into the doorway he caught sight of a mound between the two Portakabins opposite, illuminated by the blaze.

He sped across the roadway and into the gap, dropping to his knees as he came up to the huddled shape. He shone his torch into the face.

Dave.

His bright blue eyes stared past him as if with a faint look of surprise that they were meeting like this. Blood oozed from a deep gash across his throat, still warm, the front of his T-shirt sodden. Tom thrust his fingers into the wound, feeling for a pulse. Nothing. While he was lifting weights just a few metres away, Dave must have bled out. Tom embraced his friend, then laid him down again. There was nothing he could do. He removed his wallet for safekeeping and drew down his pistol. There was no doubt the smoke was from an aircraft on the tarmac that had been hit. His first thought was a mortar attack from outside the fence. But now he could hear small-arms fire, followed by a prolonged burst from a machine-gun. This wasn’t from outside. And tracer bouncing skywards confirmed it. This was a ground assault – an attack from
inside
.

6

Tom approached the USAF command tent from the rear. Inside, it was filled with a choking cloud of dust from a freshly exploded grenade. There were two dead, their body armour only half on, and a bloody trail where a third had crawled a few metres before succumbing to his injuries. There was nothing he could do for them. And there was firing outside. He ducked out, flattened himself against the Hesco wall and got his first sight of the insurgents. Two hundred metres away, a dozen or more were advancing on the next aircraft. They looked like ANA; one was carrying an RPG launcher, another lugging a heavy machine-gun.

Tom darted forward, staying parallel but out of their line of sight, heading towards a maintenance hangar. A bullet zinged over his head, which could only have come from the hangar.

‘I’m a Brit!’ he yelled, into the darkness.

Inside, a bunch of night crew, mechanics and supply clerks were holed up behind tool cabinets, the muzzles of their rifles trained on the doors. What the fuck were they doing, crammed together like sitting ducks? The walls of the hangar were no more than thin aluminium sheeting. If their attackers felt like it, they could just dump a few rounds on them and they’d be gone.

A dazed-looking mechanic lifted his head from behind a pile of tyres. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

These guys packed wrenches and wielded power drills, but as US Marines they were also trained in basic infantry tactics. There wasn’t much time to think. The camp’s size was also its weakness: the base operations centre was at least two miles away. The staff there could well be oblivious. By the time a response team was on site the insurgents would have done their worst. The other question troubling Tom – where had they come from? Was this really an insider attack, or just designed to look like one?

Out on the flight line Tom saw one of them shoulder his RPG launcher and take aim. A second later another Harrier exploded in a massive balloon of flame. Loaded with over ten thousand pounds of fuel, the first plane was now no more than a flaming carcass, the three hundred explosive rounds in its armoury going off like a giant demented firework. Debris showered the hangar’s thin roof. He crouched and addressed the mechanics.

‘No point staying here – they find you, they’ll fry you. You guys give me cover. I’ll get near enough to take some out.’

He snatched up one of their weapons and a couple of mags. No one argued.

From the door he scanned the flight line and made a plan. Once in motion he had no way of communicating with these men so he had to keep it simple. The insurgents clearly aimed to take out as many of the aircraft as they could. What was more, they seemed to know where they were going. A sickening thought came to him. Beyond the flight line, surrounded by earth embankments, were the fuel farms, massive rubber bladders holding millions of gallons of aviation fuel.

Covering fire would get him to the blast barriers, ten-foot-high concrete walls, which were supposed to stop incoming mortars or anything else the enemy might want to hurl at the aircraft. It might also deflect the insurgents, who would then return fire, or perhaps cause them to split up. Even in the few seconds he had eyes on them it was clear that they were committed and fearless but had evidently decided – or been told – to stick together in one clump. That at least made them vulnerable.

He sprinted up to the first blast barrier. Automatic-weapons fire ripped over his head as he dashed to the second. Another RPG streaked out of the darkness and slammed into one of the bladders, briefly turning night into day.

He flattened himself against the barrier, trying to get sight of the ANA uniformed men. He picked off the furthest of the five he could see first. Seeing their brother fall, the rest hesitated – just long enough for Tom to hit each of them. The nearest, also one of the smallest, had just set down a heavy belt-fed machine-gun. Tom aimed and took him down before he could fire. But a second even smaller man, perhaps a boy, sprang forward out of the gloom and embraced his fallen comrade. Seconds later the boy had grabbed the ancient weapon and swung it in Tom’s direction. Bullets spewed out of it, peppering the wall behind him. The shooter could barely control it, but seemed intent on emptying the belt regardless. Tom raised himself to get an angle, and found the insurgent in his optic. It was clear now that he was no more than a boy. Remembering he had only a handful of rounds, Tom took a breath to steady his aim and fired a single into the figure, who slumped lifelessly against the concrete.