The New Enemy Page 3

‘So it was you with the missing food pouch in the stinking damp scrape, was it?’

  Liam didn’t laugh because it wasn’t funny. Not to him anyway.

  ‘Fuck off, Pearce,’ he said.

  ‘Could’ve been any one of us,’ Pearce replied. ‘Just turns out that this time you’re wanker of the week. Well done. Want me to get you a special badge?’

  ‘You’re not the one who put the whole OP to shit,’ said Liam. ‘What if we’d been out for real? What then, eh? Wouldn’t be so fucking hysterical if we’d all got our faces shot off because I couldn’t keep my personal admin in order, would it?’

  ‘Our exit was perfect,’ said Pearce. ‘From the smoke grenades and flash-bangs to the fire manoeuvre. And you know what, you did us a favour.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘If it hadn’t been for you being a bit shit, then we’d never had been given the chance to carry out a response to a threat as we did. It’s always good to enjoy a bit of a firefight.’

  Two further pairs of boots arrived.

  ‘Well, my dear Watson,’ said Cordner, ‘do we have a suspect?’

  ‘Scott’s guilty as charged,’ said Pearce. ‘The evidence is right here in front of him. Or not, I suppose.’

  Cordner and Biggs laughed.

  ‘Well,’ said Biggs. ‘Looks like you earned yourself a nickname. I’m going with Ration Bag – or RB for short, if you want.’

  Pearce nodded, Cordner applauded. Liam attempted a smile. But he couldn’t keep it there for long.

  ‘Cordner and Pearce, you two, fuck off now and have a shower – you smell like you’ve been shat out of a cow’s arse,’ said Biggs. He stood for a moment watching Liam in silence. ‘So how long are you planning on keeping up with this bollocks, then?’ he asked as soon as he and Liam were alone. ‘If you can’t deal with a mistake and learn from it, you’re fucked. You know that.’

  ‘It was my fault,’ said Liam, still unable to pull himself out of the black mood draped over him like a funeral cloak. ‘I fucked up. I could have got us all killed.’

  ‘Mate, we’ve all fucked up. Soldiering isn’t exactly all easy-peasy now, is it?’

  Easy-peasy? thought Liam. Had Biggs really just said that? He stood up, turning his back on his kit, and sat on the edge of his bed.

  ‘So,’ continued Biggs, ‘log this and move on. Mistakes are how we learn. From here on in, no fucker is going to come close to you when it comes to being on top of their own kit now, are they?’

  ‘Totally,’ Liam said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And remember,’ said Biggs, standing up, ‘we’ve the CFT coming up next. You may be fit, but you need to smash your personal best. So get some rest. Immediately.’

  The morning of the Combat Fitness Test arrived, cold but bright. Liam was with the rest of the LRCC lads at the starting line dressed in his battle kit, which weighed in at over twenty pounds. It didn’t sound much, but running with it was no easy task.

  Liam had been training hard for the course and had already got his eight-mile CFT time down from two hours to one hour twenty. Today his time was going to be even better. He knew the course backwards. Tracks over open heathland first. Then up into the hills with a couple of sharp climbs. And then back down through woodland. He could nail it. And he wasn’t going to let the screw-up yesterday put him off.

  ‘Right, lads,’ said Sergeant Welsh, one of the physical training instructors and a force to be reckoned with, both in size and ability. ‘You know what you have to do today. You’re all fit, you’re all ready for this. So get out there and prove it. Just remember to take in enough water – I don’t want anyone forgetting what they’re doing and ending up in a state because of dehydration. Understood?’

  As one, Liam and the others answered with a clear, loud ‘Yes, Sergeant!’

  For a moment the air was still, the only sound that of soldiers sucking as much oxygen as they could down into their lungs, readying themselves for what they all knew was going to be a proper ballbreaker of a run.

  Liam replayed in his mind the moment he’d seen the soldier stand up holding the ration bag. Not today, he thought. This was going to be his moment and he was going to burn any memory of that cock-up to ash by the end of it.

  The shallow crack of a starting pistol broke the tension and the mass of soldiers took off, charging past the PTI, their singular aim to get to the end of the next eight miles as quickly as possible, no matter what.

  Liam, jostled by those around him, fought to keep his footing. No one was out to deliberately trip anyone else up, but neither were they there to do each other any favours. The CFT was every soldier for himself, and Liam elbowed his way forwards too.

  Soon the pack thinned, as much to allow people to breathe as anything else. Liam focused on his breathing, keeping it regular, with two sharp inhales through his nose followed by a single exhale from his mouth. He’d learned while reading up on fitness and running that this forced the lungs to take in more oxygen.

  The route was marked, so all Liam had to do was keep an eye out ahead for where he was going and concentrate on pushing himself through the pain.

  ‘Pain is weakness leaving the body . . .’ It was a mantra jokingly bandied about, but it rang true. If you couldn’t push through the pain and keep going, then there was no way you were ever going to make it.

  Two miles in and the inclining track Liam was now following was becoming gradually steeper. He wasn’t at the back of the pack, but he also wasn’t at the front, not yet anyway. He was keeping a fast but steady pace, ensuring that as the final miles came in he would have enough left to up a gear and really go for it. Once he passed the halfway point, that’s exactly what he would do.

  The track was winding up a slope, a snake crawling its way slowly up a mountainside. Then it snapped itself over a false horizon and Liam was heading back down, feet pounding hard as he accelerated.

  The four-mile marker zipped past. The sun was climbing and it was getting hotter. In his mind, Liam dropped a gear and floored it. Upping his pace, he thundered past three other soldiers. One of them was Pearce, but he didn’t make eye contact or throw in a comment. This wasn’t the time.

  Ahead, Liam caught sight of Cordner. The wiry Irish bastard had the build of a cross-country runner and was flying along at a hell of a pace. Liam knew that passing him would be a task in itself, but at least he could use Cordner as a marker to keep pace with. So that’s what he focused on now. With three miles left to go, his personal best was in reach. He was sweating.

  It was as the route dipped into some thick woodland that Liam started to feel strange. He was beyond tired now, mining deep into what reserves he had left. His legs were on automatic, keeping going despite feeling like jelly. His feet were no longer landing with control, had seemed to gain weight, like they were now made of lead. Sunlight was flickering through the trees.

  Liam shook his head, squeezing his eyes tight to combat a dizziness that was starting to swirl forward from the back of his brain. He had to keep going. Stopping was not an option. But what the hell was wrong?

  Had he taken in enough water? He wasn’t sure. Yes, he’d sipped from his bottle, he was sure of it, but not too much – he didn’t want cramp. He’d have some more in a minute.

  Liam’s left foot caught on a tree root sticking out of the middle of the track. He tripped, jarring his right leg as he caught himself, carried on.

  Ahead, Cordner was edging away. That wasn’t a problem. The bloke was a gazelle. Liam had never even considered catching him up.

  A puddle came up fast and he leaped over it rather than risk any stones and rocks hidden beneath the surface. But his landing was off and his knees went this time, dropping him to the ground.

  Liam hit the dirt hard, sharp daggers of pain stabbing him. But he was up again, on his feet, pushing forward. It wasn’t far to go now, he was sure of it.

  Keep going, I’ve just got to keep going . . . come on . . . fucking well move it!

  Another tree root, but Liam
had spotted it early enough to dodge it, and he zipped past.

  Nausea then came at him, a great wave of it sweeping over him, and his head spun.

  Keep going . . .

  Liam saw flashes of light dancing across his vision. He shook his head, only a little too much, and dizziness grabbed him.

  Must . . . keep . . .

  He didn’t see the dip ahead, hit the deck before he could do anything to stop himself.

  Darkness.

  4

  ‘You total fucking idiot.’

  Liam, lying on a bed in the medical centre with a drip jabbed into his arm, was in no mood for a bollocking. Not that he could do anything about the fact that he was going to get one.

  ‘Dehydration!’ continued Sergeant Welsh, voice dripping with disbelief and disdain. ‘What in the name of Christ were you thinking? Oh, you weren’t, were you? Fucksake, Scott. Are you intent on getting binned? Because, believe me, that kind of shit is exactly what’ll make it happen.’

  Liam kept his mouth shut. He was too pissed off with himself to reply.

  ‘You’re one of the fastest, fittest blokes here, and you go and make a schoolboy error like that? You ran that like you were intent on self-destruction.’

  ‘I’d been taking in water,’ said Liam.

  The sergeant chucked a water bottle to Liam. ‘This is yours. You’ll notice it’s pretty fucking full.’

  Liam reached for the bottle. He was sure he’d drunk enough. But the weight of the thing proved otherwise.

  ‘What happened on the surveillance exercise I can understand and forgive,’ said the sergeant. ‘But this?’ He leaned forward. The look on his face was stern enough to stop time. ‘Soldiers die from dehydration,’ he said. ‘You know that. Holy fuck, Scott, it even makes headline news!’

  Yeah, it does, thought Liam. But I’m not dead, am I, so why don’t you fuck off and leave me alone?

  ‘It’s one of the first things you learn! Drink water. Stay hydrated. It’s not just about keeping your body working, but your head. Dehydration out in theatre? That leads to poor judgement, bad decisions, and soldiers – not just you – getting slotted.’

  ‘I know . . .’

  ‘Certainly doesn’t fucking well seem like it to me.’ The sergeant fell quiet.

  Liam didn’t even attempt to fill the silence. He had more than enough reason to believe the sergeant would chew and spit out any of his words.

  ‘Right,’ Sergeant Welsh said at last. ‘Know this, Scott – I’ve dropped soldiers for less than what you did today. They’ve been out on their arse, told to come back when they’re ready. But with you, I’m going to make an exception.’

  ‘Thanks, Sergeant,’ said Liam.

  ‘Don’t thank me,’ Welsh replied. ‘And I warn you here and now – do not make me regret it. I know your reputation. You’ve more than proved your worth in theatre. Frankly, though, I don’t give a flying fuck about any of that. It’s given me reason to hold off on throwing you back to your battalion, but nothing else. From here on in, you need to sort your head out and get with the programme. You got me?’

  Liam nodded.

  ‘Last chance saloon,’ said the sergeant, standing up and moving away from Liam’s bed. ‘This time you stay. Next time, I’ll personally ensure my boot print tattoos your arse deep enough that you’ll be wearing a memory of me for fucking years.’

  And with that he was gone.

  Liam leaned back on the bed. He’d just got off lightly and the relief he felt didn’t mix too well with the knowledge of what an idiot he was being. It was down to him whether he stayed or not. No one else was in control of it. If he kept on like this he would be the cause of his own downfall. And that, he knew, was unacceptable on every level.

  It was time for a proper one-to-one with himself. And the only way to do that was with someone else.

  Clint Eastwood, Liam’s old mate from 4 Rifles, was the only person Liam felt he could talk to. He phoned him as soon as he was discharged from the medical centre. They’d served together in Afghanistan and balding, smiling, forty-something Clint – aka Cowboy – had always been someone he had trusted. He’d insisted on buying Liam breakfast. Liam wasn’t sure which was greasier, the floor or the plate of food in front of him.

  ‘Now this is living, hey, Scott?’

  ‘Do you think they deep fry everything?’ Liam asked, staring at his breakfast. It was so large he was surprised the rickety table they were sitting at could handle two such meals at once.

  Clint raised his pint mug of tea. ‘Judging by this mug, I reckon so,’ he said, and took a gulp.

  The café sat in a parking area alongside a road not too far from where Liam was training. It was, at best, functional, though judging by the damp patches on the walls it wouldn’t be long before the place simply gave up and sank into the ground.

  ‘How’s life?’ Liam asked. ‘How are the kids?’

  It had been a while since Liam had met up with Clint. After Afghanistan, life in 4 Rifles – their battalion – had led them in different directions. Clint had left the battalion; he was back home with his family and had returned to the Army Reserve. He also had a good business running self-defence classes. They saw little of each other. But he was still the person Liam most trusted. The basic self-defence moves Clint had taught him when he was a rookie out in Camp Bastion had saved his life. And Liam would never forget it.

  Clint grinned. Something he did a lot. He was one irritatingly happy bastard. ‘Everything’s mint, mate,’ he said.

  ‘And the business?’

  ‘Rock-and-roll awesome,’ Clint answered. ‘Now cut to the chase – what’s up?’

  ‘I’m not sure about the LRCC,’ Liam said. ‘That’s it, really.’

  ‘Rubbish,’ said Clint. ‘You’re made for it, mate. What’s your bone with it? You were smart to work out that the most powerful weapon now is not just the gun with the biggest bang or the longest range. It’s intelligence. And if you can make it in Recce Platoon, maybe one day you can try out for the SAS. Don’t tell me you wouldn’t want to.’

  Liam shovelled some black pudding into his mouth. It was crisp on the outside, soft on the inside, and totally delicious.

  ‘I fucked up twice,’ he said. ‘Once on a subsurface surveillance op, and then on the CFT.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’m beginning to think I lucked out on this one. Wondering if I’d be better heading back to 4 Rifles and getting my lance-corporal experience up to speed.’

  Clint was already halfway through his meal, eating it like he was afraid someone was going to steal it.

  ‘Hungry?’

  ‘Always,’ said Clint. ‘And I’ll be sweating this off later anyway.’

  Of that Liam had no doubt. Clint had been the oldest of the lads out with him in Afghanistan. But he’d also been the fittest.

  ‘But don’t go changing the subject,’ continued Clint. ‘You’re not a quitter, mate. You messed up. The ration pouch? That stuff happens. Job done. The dehydration? If we weren’t in this café, I’d give you a slap. You know better.’ He drained his mug of tea, asked for another. ‘I’ve seen you do what you do. I’ve seen you react under fire. Mate, I’ve been under your command, remember? The battalion wouldn’t have supported your application for the LRCC if the powers that be didn’t think you were up to it. You are. So move on, move up. Simple.’

  Liam said, ‘You know my lance-corporal experience won’t count for shit if I pass and get into Recce Platoon, right?’

  Clint shrugged. ‘So what?’

  ‘Good point.’

  ‘I’m serious,’ said Clint. ‘What does that matter? You will have the rank – you just won’t be in a command role for a while. Hardly a deal-breaker when you consider the fact that you will be doing a job few others are cut out for. And that’s worth more, I reckon, don’t you?’

  Liam nodded and finished the last of his breakfast.

  ‘You’re a good soldier, Liam,’ said Clint, now halfway through
his second mug of tea. ‘Better than good. And unless I’m mistaken – and I know I’m not – you’re in this for the duration, right? So suck it up and crack on. If you don’t – I’ll kick your arse . . .’

  The memory of Clint’s voice faded away as Liam forced himself back to his present-day reality. Here he was in an interrogation room getting his arse kicked by a different bastard and he had to work out how to get through it. It was no time to think about the past. He started to go through again, detail by detail, everything he had learned about surviving capture. One thing he could do was focus on his training, try to force his brain to remember the basics, like how to strip his rifle. He was in the process of putting the weapon back together in his mind when the hood was ripped from his head.

  ‘Name.’

  Liam’s eyes were blurry but he now recognized the voice. It was Sergeant Welsh.

  ‘Scott, Liam . . .’ Liam replied.

  ‘So how do you feel now that you know you’ve fucked up for the last time?’

  Liam was beyond thinking of a response and the question just bounced off him. ‘Scott, Liam . . .’ He was on autopilot, couldn’t say anything else even if he wanted to.

  ‘You can stop with all that bollocks,’ said the sergeant. ‘I said I’d throw you out if you fucked up one more time, didn’t I? Well, this is that time, Scott. It’s time to say goodbye, and frankly, I’m pleased.’

  ‘Scott, Liam . . .’

  The sergeant was out of his seat now and round to Liam’s side, speaking quietly into his left ear. ‘You haven’t got what it takes, Scott,’ he whispered. ‘We’ve pushed you and you’ve crumbled. No more fucking around. You’re leaving this room as someone who can’t hack what Recce Platoon is all about. And about time. Last thing we need is some dick with a couple of medals thinking he’s the hero. You hear me? We want you to fuck off!’

  Liam kept quiet, but stood his ground.

  Sergeant Welsh leaned in real close. Liam could feel the man’s breath against his ear.

  ‘You’ve failed, Scott,’ he said. ‘Totally. Fucking. Failed.’

  5