The New Enemy Page 5

  Everyone chorused a ‘Yes, sir.’

  Liam stopped unpacking and walked to the door. ‘Best get going then. Bag ourselves some good seats.’

  Pearce, Cordner and Biggs followed him out and soon they were all sitting with the rest of the Recce Platoon in a canvas-walled room, the canvas pulled tight against the elements around a steel frame. Behind them sat Waterman and the others from their section.

  Captain Owusu was at the front waiting for the last of the soldiers to troop in. When they were all present and correct, an expectant silence fell.

  The captain welcomed everyone then went straight into the reason they had all been called together.

  ‘Tomorrow will be Day Two of your six weeks here in BATUK. As you can see, the weather is certainly better than back home. And the only cats you’ll see walking around are big enough to bite your head off. But this is no holiday.’

  Pearce leaned over to Liam. ‘It’s the last time I let you book online, mate,’ he whispered. ‘I specifically asked for two weeks getting pissed on a beach and you bring us here. What a twat.’

  Liam didn’t reply as Captain Owusu continued with his briefing.

  ‘We are here to work, and to help the Kenyans as much as we can. Understood? Good.’ The captain gave no pause for agreement. ‘So that you are aware, you must all remain vigilant against insider attacks. Though the threat may not be as acute as that faced by most of you while in theatre, it is still very real and immediate.’

  Afghanistan was a war zone, but Kenya, as far as Liam knew, wasn’t. Threat to life had been an everyday occurrence while on tour, and even Camp Bastion hadn’t been completely safe. Following a mortar attack by Taliban insurgents on the camp, he’d ended up in the hospital, luckily only with concussion. But BATUK? This was something he hadn’t even considered.

  Captain Owusu pinned photographs of five Kenyan soldiers on the wall behind him. The men all looked young, around the same age as Liam. Not only that, they didn’t look like the kind of lads who would be easily persuaded to do something they didn’t want to.

  ‘Only three weeks ago,’ Owusu continued, ‘BATUK was attacked by Al Shabaab terrorists. Seven Kenyan soldiers were injured, three seriously. Al Shabaab, it seems, is not content with just playing games in Somalia, and is now making serious inroads into Kenya itself. And it isn’t about to back down without a serious and sustained rebuttal from the KDF.’

  Liam wanted to know exactly what kind of attack had been carried out. Was it a suicide bomb or a coordinated ground assault? BATUK, like Bastion, seemed pretty impregnable.

  ‘Not only that,’ said that captain, interrupting Liam’s thoughts, ‘but following the attack, it was discovered that a number of the Kenyan soldiers had gone missing, presumably kidnapped.’

  With a sick feeling, Liam knew immediately that these were the soldiers in the photographs.

  ‘Al Shabaab is organized and ruthless. On that particular day, one terrorist who had managed to infiltrate the camp and secure a job working in the mess blew himself up. At exactly the same time, BATUK was attacked at two other points. It was during this that these five men were taken.’

  Liam was shocked. A suicide bomb was one thing, but to use such an attack as a distraction to snatch hostages was something else. And he didn’t like the sound of it at all. No one did. IEDs terrified all soldiers, but you got on with the job and hoped you were lucky. Being taken hostage was another thing entirely. And, deep down, Liam felt – as did every other soldier he knew – that it would be better to be killed outright than end up in the hands of terrorists and at the mercy of their video cameras and sharp knives.

  ‘Suffice to say,’ said Captain Owusu, ‘the camp is on high alert. So don’t get lazy just because the sun’s out and you’re not back home in the pissing wet. Is that clear?’

  ‘Sir,’ said Liam, joining in with the rest of the platoon.

  ‘Now get back to sorting out your kit. Tomorrow we start. Dismissed.’

  Breakfast, as with every army breakfast Liam had ever had, was full of choice. It was as if those in charge of catering understood that not providing a full English would potentially result in mutiny. But if he was honest, Liam had never had much to complain about when it came to the food. Hell, even the ration packs were decent. There was a reason behind so much food being on offer, and that was simply the fact that soldiers burned calories – a lot of them. It wasn’t unusual, on a hard day out training, for a soldier to need over 4000 calories just to get by. Today, though, Liam hadn’t been tempted by the vast piles of bacon, egg, sausage, beans, mushrooms, black pudding, tomatoes and hash browns. The heat didn’t yet mix it too well with the grease, so he’d gone for a double helping of porridge with a couple of bananas and a few slices of toast and marmalade, all washed down with a decent brew.

  With the most important meal of the day out of the way, they had then all been informed that the next few days were to be spent getting to know each other. No one had taken that seriously – soldiers, Liam knew, had a knack of getting to know each other within minutes of meeting. It was all part of being able to depend on each other in a life-or-death situation. No, the aim here was to ensure that the sections were working well together before getting involved with the Kenyans. It would also serve as a bit of revision.

  Marching out from BATUK that morning had given Liam a better idea of what lay outside the camp’s perimeter. It wasn’t the Serengeti, but neither was it the Brecon Beacons. The green of vegetation stood out bright and lush against the red clay soil. Baobab trees, strange things that looked almost as though they’d been planted the wrong way up, their roots stretching for the sky, were dotted everywhere. A herd of zebra grazed in the distance.

  Evidence of small-scale farming was all around them, from strips of land growing crops to wandering flocks of goats. He saw small huts assembled from scavenged materials: old doors, wattle and daub, dry wood and sheets of polythene. But what struck him most was the quiet. Swallows swooped through the sky and called to each other, but otherwise that was it. The air was still and warm, undisturbed by the hum of traffic and human interference.

  With the march out to their destination over, Liam and the rest of the platoon had then split off into their sections to dig scrapes and bed in for the night, all under the guise of setting up subsurface observation posts.

  ‘You’ve got to love the army’s approach to team-building,’ said Biggs. ‘Send us halfway round the world to a country full of dangerous animals, and have us digging holes. Fucking genius.’

  ‘Good day for a barbecue,’ said Cordner, stretching his back and staring up at the sky, which was swimmingpool blue. ‘Not that I’d eat any of it if Pearce was cooking.’

  ‘You saying I can’t cook?’ Pearce replied.

  ‘I’m saying you could burn water. A chef you ain’t.’

  Liam immediately discovered that digging out in the Kenyan heat was nothing like doing it back in the UK. Here, rain didn’t come to cool you off and the breeze was non-existent. And if the work wasn’t shared and managed well, people were liable to get pissed off very quickly and take it out on each other.

  ‘Some beach volleyball wouldn’t go amiss,’ said Fish, one of the other lads from his section who Liam had recently met. His real name was Kamil Jackson, but he’d been given the nickname ‘Fish’ because he hated seafood.

  ‘Suck it up,’ said Adam Bale, another of the lads in his section. All Liam knew about him was that he’d spent a few of his teenage years stealing cars.

  ‘Pearce complains about everything,’ said Cordner. ‘It’s part of his charm.’

  ‘You’re not saying you enjoy it?’ asked Pearce, glancing over at Bale. The two were a similar size, but Bale, though fit, lacked the steel-wire muscle of Pearce. Liam knew who he would put his money on if the heat got to them both and they decided to have a go.

  Neil Airey then joined in. Unlike the rest, he’d yet to stop digging and was just carrying on with measured deliberate moves, seemingly
incapable of experiencing muscle fatigue and exhaustion, even in the relentless heat. The last member of the eight-man section Liam had been placed with, he had the face of a boxer and the knuckles to match.

  ‘It’s not about enjoying it,’ he said, throwing soil to the side. ‘It’s about your mind-set. That’s all this is. To test you in the heat. See if you can take it.’

  ‘I can take it,’ said Pearce. ‘So don’t go thinking I can’t, you got me?’

  ‘All I can see is that you’ve stopped digging to whine on about it,’ said Airey. ‘So like Bale said, suck it up, or shut the fuck up.’

  Pearce looked to Liam for support. ‘You agree this is bollocks, right, RB?’

  ‘RB?’ asked Airey. ‘Thought your name was Scott.’

  ‘It is,’ said Liam. ‘But these bastards decided it wasn’t good enough.’

  Cordner then quickly explained what had happened. ‘So Ration Bag seemed like a decent name for him,’ he said, concluding the story of Liam’s cock-up during the LRCC to roars of laughter from the others. ‘RB for short. He won’t go making the same mistake again, that’s for sure.’

  ‘Well, we’ll find out later, won’t we?’ said Biggs. ‘Seeing as this is where we’re going to be sleeping for a few nights. Assuming Pearce can pull his thumb out of his arse and get digging again.’

  When the scrape was at last dug and camouflaged, Liam was on with the SLR and spotting scope. He’d already checked his kit three times to make sure nothing had gone missing.

  ‘You’re a grafter, I’ll give you that,’ said Waterman, who was in the scrape with Liam, Cordner and Fish. Shirtless, his tattoos were on full view. Every time he moved, twisted faces from horror movies grimaced at Liam like they were trying to escape from Waterman’s body. ‘It’s like Airey said – it’s not about the digging, it’s about whether you can just get on with it regardless. Nicely done.’

  Liam didn’t quite know what to say in reply and just went with, ‘Thanks.’

  ‘People think any specialism like Recce Platoon or UKSF or whatever is sexy and cool because it’s all danger and derring-do,’ said Waterman. ‘But it isn’t. Most of the time it’s dull as shit. It’s all about whether you can handle it – the pressure of being close to the enemy, and quiet enough so as not to get slotted.’

  ‘You been in long?’ asked Liam.

  ‘Long enough,’ said Waterman. ‘Eighteen months. I’m up next, so give me a kick in four hours.’

  And with that, Liam was alone in the darkening silence. The Kenyan night shrouded the ground in an eerie grey, and soon all he could hear was the sounds of nocturnal animals hunting, hiding, feeding, surviving. And out there too, Liam knew, was Al Shabaab. He wondered just how close.

  7

  Liam was standing with the rest of the Recce Platoon out in the training area that doubled as a parade ground. It was the start of a new day and a new week. He could hardly believe seven days had gone already. But then they’d been kept busy, with no time left over at the end of each day to do much apart from collapse and grab some rest. The heat didn’t help, but he had eventually acclimatized. Fluids were vital to surviving it and he was drinking litres of the stuff – he was determined not to make the same mistake twice and get dehydrated.

  The air was thick with the scent of soil and dirt. The heat, Liam had quickly discovered, was different to that he’d experienced in Afghanistan. There it had been a desert heat, dry and ferocious like a blast from an open oven. But here it was more humid, though just as blisteringly hot. The moisture in the air brought with it the rich musk of vegetation. The chill of the previous night had lifted quickly and, along with his breakfast, had done little to refresh Liam’s still groggy head. For whatever reason, he had slept too heavily the night before, and was now trying to get his head into gear. Rubbing his eyes yet again in an attempt to push energy into himself and start sparking, Liam stared at what was now sitting in front of them.

  Just over an hour ago, close to 200 KDF soldiers had arrived at the camp in a collection of military vehicles that Liam thought wouldn’t have looked out of place in a museum. Preceded by a thick cloud that had been more exhaust fumes than dust, the KDF were now sat on the ground waiting for what Liam and the rest of the Recce Platoon were there to provide: world-class training. Liam rubbed his eyes even harder.

  ‘Doesn’t fill you with confidence, does it?’ It was Cordner, and he was staring at the vehicles the KDF had arrived in.

  ‘I’ve seen trucks in better nick after they’ve been slammed by a pissed-off Apache,’ said Pearce. ‘How the hell they made it here, I don’t know.’

  From ageing troop carriers to American Humvees, the mismatched collection seemed to Liam almost embarrassed at their state of repair. Leaning at odd angles, with barely a panel unscathed, patches of oil were already beginning to pool underneath them.

  ‘The soldiers look capable, though,’ said Liam, looking for something good to say. If he was honest, he’d half expected the soldiers to look like the vehicles, but they were nothing of the sort. They seemed fit, disciplined and keen. Their clothing and kit, though not as up to date as that of Liam and the rest of Recce Platoon, was still fit for purpose and the camouflage pattern was darker. Their webbing was very much like what the British Army had worn a number of years ago, which had now been replaced with the superb modular system issued during Afghanistan.

  ‘Capable they may well be,’ said Waterman, ‘but did you cop a look at their kit?’

  ‘What about it?’ asked Liam.

  Although none of the soldiers were armed at that moment, they had all arrived carrying what they’d need for the weeks ahead.

  ‘Did you not clock their weapons?’ Waterman asked. ‘Christ alive – looked like they’d raided some poor fucker’s gun collection!’

  Liam thought back and recalled exactly what Waterman was getting at. He knew as well as anyone else that the general approach with most armed forces was standardization. Everyone in Recce Platoon was pretty much armed with SA80s, unless in a specialized role, and given either the Sharpshooter or sniper rifle. The principle was simple: have everyone train with, and use, the same equipment, thus making it easier for them to pick it up wherever they are and carry on with the fight. Supply is made simpler too. From all they’d seen, though, it was clear to Liam that the Kenyan Defence Force had a different approach entirely.

  ‘I reckon half of what these lads carry would either jam or misfire,’ said Waterman. ‘They’ve got some decent kit like MP5s and SCARs but it’s the other stuff that worries me. It’s crazy.’

  The MP5, though an old design, was universally famous, not just because it was ferociously reliable and an outstanding weapon for close-quarter fighting, but also because of its association with the SAS. The SCAR, or Special Operations Forces Combat Assault Rifle, was another matter altogether. Recently supplied by the US, and built by FN Herstal, the SCAR was a modular rifle available in both 5.56mm and 7.62 calibres. With the option of different barrel lengths for either close-quarters battle or longer-range operations, it was a superb multi-purpose weapon built to satisfy most if not all combat roles.

  ‘There’s even a few AKs in there,’ said Pearce. ‘And if they’re in as shit a state as the ones we’ve all used in ’Stan, then they couldn’t shoot my bollocks off at point blank.’

  ‘That’s because you haven’t got any bollocks,’ said Liam, but his attention was mostly on the captain.

  Captain Owusu had already addressed everyone about what the next few weeks would involve, and was now talking to a group of KDF officers. Liam tried to zone in on what was being said but was unable to make anything out.

  ‘I guess this is where we get to meet and greet,’ said Pearce. ‘I’m looking all right, aren’t I? My make-up isn’t smudged or anything?’

  ‘It’s like a blind date,’ said Cordner. ‘So just stick to the simple stuff – name, age, interests. No mention of trying to get to second base, though. That’s just rude and way too fecking forwar
d.’

  ‘Not sure Pearce has ever been on a date,’ said Fish. ‘And if he has, she must’ve been blind.’

  At last, Captain Owusu came over to the platoon, casting a long shadow on the ground in front of him.

  The bright sun was already burning the exposed skin on Liam’s arms, and his clothes stuck to him. The meaty sweet smell of sweat hung in the air. At first it turned the nose, but pretty soon it blended into the surroundings. That didn’t make it any less unpleasant, though.

  ‘A few things to be aware of,’ said the captain, addressing the soldiers a little distance away from the KDF. ‘First, as you’ve already witnessed, their equipment is a little, shall we say, varied? In the light of recent events involving Al Shabaab, the Kenyan government is working hard to re-equip its entire armed forces. But it can’t do it all at once and is somewhat dependent on generous donations from overseas.’

  ‘That would explain the SCARs,’ said a soldier at the back of the group.

  ‘Exactly,’ said the captain. ‘Some of their kit is seriously up to date, some of it not so much. And the same goes for their training. The KDF is racing not just to keep up with the rest of the world, but to handle the threat it now faces. It even has a small unit of special forces soldiers trained to deal with terrorists.’

  ‘If that’s the case, then why are we here?’ asked Biggs.

  ‘By small, I mean tiny,’ explained Captain Owusu. ‘Fifty soldiers at this current time, their numbers building slowly but surely. So, not really enough to deal with what they are facing. And those soldiers are otherwise engaged, so using them in a training capacity would be a huge waste of valuable – and at this current time, rare – resources.’

  It made sense, thought Liam. There was no point spending a stack of cash on a small number of troops and then using them as teachers. It made much more sense, politically as well as financially, to bring in the British. Which is where he and the rest of the Recce Platoon came in.

  ‘Despite how they look, this is no ragtag army,’ continued the captain. ‘They are good soldiers in the main. Fit and capable and no slouch in a fight. It is also worth bearing in mind that many of the lads in front of you have had first-hand experience of dealing with Al Shabaab. They’ve seen combat, some of it as fierce and brutal as anything we ourselves have dealt with. So my advice to all of you right here and now is to accept that, although you may be here to teach them, you will probably learn a thing or two from them too. So be prepared to listen.’