War Torn (62 page)

‘Pass her to me, would you? It really hurts my stitches to lean over there.’

Leanne did not stop crying as she struggled to her feet and picked up the tiny girl very gently. Her tears dripped onto the baby, who opened her eyes in surprise.

‘Oops,’ said Leanne, handing the little pink bundle to Jenny. ‘Sorry, gorgeous.’

‘What are you trying to do, baptize her?’ The baby effortlessly aligned herself against Jenny’s body and then began to feed.

‘I get fed up with crying,’ said Leanne, through sobs. ‘I’m so fucking bored with it.’

‘Maybe Steve’s getting fed up with it too. Maybe if you were a bit more like you used to be, then he’d be more like his old self too.’

Leanne took some deep breaths, and when her voice was almost under control, she squeaked: ‘How was that, Jen? I can’t remember. How was I?’

‘You were a tough cookie and you didn’t take any nonsense from Steve and you could drink him under the table if you wanted to, and the Buckles were just about the funniest, most popular couple in the whole camp. Probably in the whole of Wiltshire.’

Leanne blinked at her.

‘Us?’

‘You. And if Steve ever gave you shit, that’s just what he got back.’

Leanne sat up a bit straighter, her face thoughtful.

‘So,’ Jenny asked, ‘why did you change?’

‘Well . . . I think it was all that time they kept him at Bastion, when I didn’t know how he was. I got sort of destroyed by worry . . .’ Leanne was twisting her tissue tightly around her fingers and it was disintegrating.

‘You can stop worrying now. He’s all right.’ Jenny remembered something Dave had said on the phone, something about Steve getting irritated because Leanne wanted to treat him like a victim. ‘He’s not just all right, he’s got a goal and he’s going for it. Why aren’t you supporting him?’

‘Because I don’t want him back out in Afghanistan.’

‘He wouldn’t be happy sitting in an office. That’s not Steve. He never was that way and he’s not going to change just because his body’s different. C’mon, Leanne, wake up and smell the coffee.’

Leanne stared at her.

‘What should I do?’

‘Try being yourself. If he liked wimps he would have married one.’

When Jenny looked at Leanne’s face she wondered if she’d gone too far. A few minutes later, Leanne got up to leave.

‘Have I upset you?’

‘No, no, of course not.’

But she had. She could tell from Leanne’s voice. She could tell from the way her footsteps disappeared down the hospital corridor, loud and angry.

Jenny felt sadness sweeping through her. That waterfall feeling again. She looked down at the baby, who was lying peacefully in her arms, watching her face steadily.

‘She hardly noticed you, did she?’ Jenny said to her tiny daughter. ‘Too many problems to think about you. And you know why? Because she married a soldier. So don’t do it, Baby.’

THE
PLATOONS
STAYED
IN
THE
CAMP
AN
EXTRA
TWENTY-FOUR
hours, searching ceaselessly but hopelessly for Martyn on the hillside. Then the order finally came to return to Sin City.

The men looked back before they jumped into the wagons. A few gazed at the hillside for a moment, as if Martyn might suddenly emerge from behind a bush shouting: ‘Wait for me! I was only having a crap!’ Most just took a quick glance around at the desert they had scarred with their wire, trenches and sandbags.

‘We leaving all our wire and stuff here for the Taliban to help themselves?’ asked Mal.

‘The engineers are coming to take the camp down,’ the boss told him. ‘I’m glad we don’t have to.’

‘Goodbye, fucking Jackpot,’ Finn said. The name seemed stupid now. It was a strutting name. It reminded you of the way Martyn swaggered around the camp with his misplaced, brash confidence.

‘Jackpot, shithole, lost spot, dead loss
. . .’ Bacon muttered under his breath.

The journey back was oppressive. It was not only the heat that kept the men still in their seats but their sense of failure. They had agreed often enough in the last twenty-four hours that Martyn never should have gone outside the wire like that. But, inside, every man took some responsibility for what had happened, and the higher his rank the worse he felt. Major Willingham, Dave thought, looked ten years older than when they had arrived here.

The men on top watched as the huge jagged teeth protruding
from the earth became the Early Rocks. A carload full of pilgrims, mostly women in bright headscarves, was crossing the desert towards the shrine. And then they were gone too and the empty desert rolled on and on before them.

When the convoy arrived back at the FOB it was getting dark. The doors of the wagons opened and Emily was first out, followed by the engineers. Saying nothing, their faces still pinched with shock, they quietly trooped off towards their isoboxes.

The men jumped out, grateful for the silence, the stillness and the evening air, but they were immediately surrounded by the rest of the company, eager for an account of Martyn’s kidnap.

Boss Weeks opened the door at the front of the wagon but he did not dismount. He looked hopefully for Asma among the faces surrounding the Vectors. Jean and Iain Kila were already locked in conversation. But Asma was nowhere to be seen. His eyes searched the base for her. No Asma, but he could see evidence of the news they’d received that Sin City had come under heavy attack today. There was damage everywhere. Sandbags were ragged. A sangar had collapsed in one corner. He hoped Asma was safe. Even if she wasn’t speaking to him.

He heard the 2 i/c greeting Major Willingham.

‘So, sir, do you think there’s any chance we’ll get Topaz Zero back?’

Weeks listened intently to the OC’s answer.

‘No, I don’t. God, what a fucking catastrophe. Nothing happened to us and then everything happened in five minutes. So my career’s pretty much a T4.’

He was aware that someone was standing in the Vector’s open doorway. He glanced down. Asma! He could not stop himself smiling broadly.

Weeks jumped out and she smiled back.

‘I’m sorry you’ve had such a hard time,’ she said.

‘Asma, I want to apologize.’

‘You don’t have anything to apologize for, Gordon.’

‘I didn’t really listen to you, but I’ve had all week to think about what you said. And yesterday proved you right. I’m sure Martyn’s kidnapping was cold, calculated revenge. As cold and calculating as the way we took out their man.’

‘But we heard he walked right up to them! They didn’t plan that bit.’

‘They were certainly planning something. There was evidence that they’d been watching us and perhaps gathering in numbers ready for some kind of ambush.’

‘Shit, Gordon, I want to say I’m sorry too. I’m sorry about all the shit I gave you. I’ve been feeling fucking awful about it.’

‘Don’t apologize for being right,’ he said. They smiled at each other again, more awkwardly this time.

‘When I saw the mess and no sign of you . . .’ Weeks gestured around at the damaged base ‘. . . I was worried that you’d been injured.’

‘Yeah, well, we had an interesting time today. Even Jean had to get out there with a weapon and she could barely remember which end to fire from. The second i/c was just about to ask the cook to get on the .50 when it all stopped.’

Weeks laughed at the thought of the pan-wielding Masud behind such a heavy weapon.

‘Taking Martyn has turned the local Taliban into a bunch of cocky bastards,’ Asma said. ‘The way they were gloating on their mobiles. I just wanted to tell them all to fuck off. Anyway, we can expect a lot more attacks like that now.’

The men sorted out the ammo and the wagons and then began to cluster in the cookhouse. Dave tried to call Jenny but the phones had been taken out of action while relatives were informed of a fatality at another base.

He went to the ops room and found it a hive of activity. Most of the officers were there and Iain Kila was passing around steaming mugs.

‘Second i/c’s too busy to make a brew!’ he explained. ‘I never thought I’d see the day.’

‘What’s going on?’

‘All hell’s let loose over Topaz Zero. He’s an international news story now.’

‘So the OC isn’t going to remember that he told me I could get online as soon as we were back to look at the new baby . . .’

Kila, who could carry four mugs of tea at once, plonked them down without finesse and went straight over to the 2 i/c. After a hurried conversation in undertones, the officer got up.

‘Congratulations, Sergeant. But don’t be too long, will you? I’m waiting for an urgent email from the Foreign Office.’

Dave went straight to his inbox and found that Leanne Buckle had sent three sets of pictures. The earliest email said:

He clicked on the first picture and caught his breath when it filled the screen. There was Jenny, looking tired, her cheeks red and her hair pulled back from her face, but it was her smile that made his eyes dampen. He knew that Jenny had been smiling at the camera just for him. She had the exhausted exuberance of a new mother and that tiny, sleeping bundle she was holding up was his daughter. He bit his lip.

In the next picture Vicky was standing at Jenny’s bedside, peering at the tiny red-faced figure. Both the baby and Vicky surveyed each other solemnly. The scene was lit by Jenny’s smile again.

The most recent set showed the baby asleep and Jenny trying to rearrange her hair. He stared hard. This was Jenny less than twenty-four hours ago. It was the closest he had been to her since leaving the UK. Her smile spoke to him. It said:
I love you, I miss you, why aren’t you here?
He swallowed.

‘Very nice,’ said the OC, appearing behind him. ‘Now let’s see the baby.’

Dave clicked on the picture of Vicky and her new sister.

‘Good heavens, they both look just like you!’ said the OC.

Dave grinned, pleased.

‘Now, if you don’t mind, Martyn’s capture is causing a political storm . . . But the phones are no longer minimized. I haven’t told the other men yet so that you can be the first.’

Everyone in the cookhouse was watching Martyn on TV. A black-and-white picture of him had suddenly appeared behind the newsreader. In it he was looking a few years younger and had a bit more hair, smiling happily as though he had just won at blackjack. The graphic said HOSTAGE CRISIS.

The reporter looked serious: ‘Mr Robertson, an oilman of many years’ experience, has been actively engaged in an exploration project that experts believe will make a major contribution to the development of Afghanistan. NATO governments, particularly the US and the UK, hope that if the exploration is successful it could offer Afghanistan an alternative income to narcotics. Diplomats are working round the clock behind the scenes to secure his return . . .’

‘Diplomats!’ scoffed Boss Weeks. ‘What diplomatic relations does the British government have with the Taliban?’

Kila shook his head. ‘Poor bastard. Poor fucking bastard.’

‘What are they doing about it apart from talking?’ demanded Mal. ‘Why aren’t they looking all over Helmand Province?’

Finn said: ‘The odds are getting longer every minute.’

The others stared at him.

‘What odds?’

‘You mean, the odds on Martyn coming back alive?’ asked Jamie.