The New Patrol Read online

  The ground around Liam was peppered with rounds coming in thick and fast. Some were tracers, zipping a bright red line through the air. Flaming wreckage from the ruined Chinook covered the area. It was apocalyptic, a bleak landscape of flame and violence.

  Liam checked again for direction of fire, then heard another shout over the radio. Miller again. He turned. Miller was jabbing a finger behind Liam. Despite the effectiveness of the PRR, a physical order was still advisable. It was also reassuring to see someone in control, not to just hear them.

  Liam turned and saw one of the large boxes of supplies they’d brought with them. And he was the closest.

  Miller yelled across the radio to Clint and any other soldiers close enough to help, ‘Give Scott covering fire! Now!’

  If the sound of rifle fire had been loud before, it was deafening now. And with his mates putting down a wall of hot metal on anyone idiotic enough to get in the way, Liam was on his feet, racing hard for the supplies, zigzagging all the way to make himself a difficult target, wondering what the hell Miller had in mind.

  Unclipping the webbing that held the supplies securely together, Liam soon found out.

  Ripping open a box, he pulled out a metal tube about a metre long. It was a light anti-structures missile, or LASM for short. The 66mm unguided extendable rocket launcher carried a kilo of explosives. After piercing through a target the high-explosive warhead would detonate. Liam had used the weapon more than once during his last tour. And now he picked it up and had it sighted on the target in a heartbeat.

  Liam breathed out, eyes focused down the pop-up sight of the launcher. Then he pressed the black switch on top of the green tube.

  The rocket leaped out, tracing a faint white trail through the air. Then it crashed into the wall, exploding a moment later on the other side, right where the Taliban were laid up and firing from.

  The explosion ripped the area to pieces, chucking dirt and stone and anything else in its way high into the air. It was impossible to tell at this distance, but Liam knew that amongst the debris were the remains of whoever had been firing at them.

  The firing stopped. Liam dropped the now empty and useless tube, grabbed another and ran forward.

  More rounds came in, this time from another direction. Still zigzagging, he dropped down beside Clint. Rob was with him – for once without his iPod on – along with a soldier with bright red hair whose name was Tim Harding. Of everyone Liam had met, Harding was the quietest, hardly ever saying a word.

  ‘Nice welcome we get, isn’t it?’ said Clint. ‘Where’s the warm handshake, mug of tea and biscuit?’

  Rob switched mags, fired. ‘I could murder a fucking brew,’ he said, agreeing with Clint. ‘And a Rich Tea.’

  One thing Liam had quickly become used to was squaddie humour. Dry and dark, it helped them all cope with extreme danger and the threat of death. It wasn’t uncommon to even hear laughter during a firefight, albeit it grim and cold.

  ‘Fuckers were waiting for us,’ continued Rob, talking between shots. ‘Like they knew we were coming.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Liam, changing his own mag. ‘How could they?’

  ‘Think about it,’ said Rob. ‘The only ones who would’ve known we were on our way were the lads in the compound. We don’t go broadcasting our every movement, not unless we actually want to get shot to pieces.’

  Liam raised his rifle and, with Sergeant Miller now controlling return of fire from his troops, joined in with Clint. He couldn’t help but think about what Rob had suggested, though, and he didn’t like it. The implication – that someone on the inside of the compound had given away their imminent arrival – was terrifying.

  ‘Are you saying someone told them?’

  ‘All I know,’ said Rob, ‘is that we arrived into a whole world of shit and someone knew enough about where we were, and when we’d arrive, to lay it all on for us.’

  Liam heard Corporal Cowell shouting orders, and he wasn’t exactly coming across as someone who’d never been in combat before. Perhaps he’d misjudged him? he thought. It was reassuring. The bloke might not be such a total arsehole after all.

  Whatever peace had rested on the place before they’d arrived had now been duly shattered. But that, thought Liam, was the fault of the daft fuck who had decided to take a pot shot at them with an RPG. He wondered at the sense of it really, now that, with their arrival, there were twice as many well-trained soldiers to deal with.

  Miller dropped in next to Liam, Clint, Rob and Tim. ‘Eastwood, Harding, Hammond – you’re with me,’ he said. ‘The lads in the compound have them pinned down. We’re moving along their left flank to cut them off. Scott?’

  ‘Boss?’ Liam answered.

  Miller pointed back up at the charred remains of the helicopter. ‘Harper’s up there dealing with injuries. The pilots got hammered. Two casualties. She needs assistance and you’re it as you’re closest. Clark will be following. We need them stabilized and taken to PB One, ASAP. Move!’

  Liam nodded, caught Clint’s eye, then sprinted back to the Chinook, legs hammering like engine pistons. Now acclimatized to the Afghan heat, the sprint didn’t bother him one bit.

  Behind the Chinook he found Nicky and the two wounded pilots.

  ‘Hold this,’ Nicky shouted over the noise of the firefight, handing him a drip. It was attached to one of the pilots. ‘Talk to him. He’s all right, but I’ve the other one to check over again.’

  Liam took the drip, dropped down at the pilot’s side. The man was clearly in pain, every breath causing him to wince – morphine could only do so much. His head was bandaged and bleeding, and the rest of him was dotted with field dressings gradually turning a pinky red. Dust and dirt had mixed with the blood, staining it a dirty, grubby brown. Infection could be as much a killer in war as the actual wound.

  ‘Miller’s called in for air support,’ said Nicky, now working with another casualty. ‘We need to extract all casualties to PB One immediately. I’ve radioed in for medevac. They’ll come in once everything has calmed down.’ She crawled over to another figure lying in the shadow of the Chinook.

  As Liam chatted to the pilot, working at keeping him awake and his mind off his injuries, a series of sharp, violent explosions tore his voice from him and he leaned forward over the pilot, using his body to protect him from any fallout. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  The pilot tried to speak, but pain stabbed his words. At last he said, ‘Sounds like . . . Hellfires.’

  Liam almost felt sorry for anyone on the receiving end of such a weapon. There was simply no escape.

  ‘And that means,’ said the pilot, toughing it out against the pain to keep talking, ‘the Apache helicopter brigade have come to join in the fun.’

  Another barrage followed, then silence. And right at the edge of it, the faint throb of rotor blades, drawing closer.

  ‘See?’ said the pilot, and Liam saw them through the dust, far enough away not to be at risk of a rocket attack, but close enough to cause horrifying mayhem. Faint puffs of smoke burst from the helicopter silhouettes.

  ‘That’ll be CRV7 rockets now,’ said the pilot as the rockets streaked the sky towards their target. He tried to sit up to get a better look, but gave up barely a second into trying.

  ‘Effective?’ asked Liam.

  ‘They’ll be armed with flechette warheads,’ said the pilot, closing his eyes in pain. ‘Each one has eighty tungsten darts, all capable of piercing two-inch-thick armour plating. If there’s anything left that’s alive, it won’t be for much longer.’ He opened his eyes and looked up at Liam with a best attempt at a grin, then said, ‘Gleaming!’

  Now that was a word Liam loved to hear. ‘Gleaming’ was the ultimate seal of approval from a soldier. So, clearly, whatever the Apaches were about to do, it was going to be seriously effective.

  Liam didn’t see what happened next, his view blocked by the Chinook. There was no explosion, just the faint sound of dirt and grit being hit hard by what the pilo
t had just described.

  ‘It’ll be over now,’ said the pilot. ‘Trust me.’

  Although the sense of urgency and danger had receded, for the next half an hour or so Liam heard sporadic bursts of gunfire. He guessed this was little more than the others clearing through where the Taliban had been hiding out.

  Corporal Cowell appeared. Nicky looked up. With Cowell were four other lads from the multiple.

  ‘On your order, Harper, covering fire will hammer what’s left of those Tally bastards attacking us, and you and the boys here get the wounded to PB One. Understood?’

  ‘Corporal.’ Nicky nodded, then said, ‘Let’s do this now. We’re good to go.’

  The lads with Cowell grabbed the casualties. Cowell called across the PRR and a rapid rate of fire was laid down. Anyone stupid enough to pop their head up for a look-see now would get it shot off. Then the casualties were off, the lads carrying them racing across open ground to Patrol Base 1, their only cover the massive and deadly amount of live rounds being pummelled into the Taliban positions.

  Clint’s voice came over the PRR. ‘Saunders is hit!’ The words rang hard, crystal clear, deafening. ‘We need to extract to PB One! Immediately!’

  10

  Liam looked up, but before he could speak another voice came over the radio: it was Steers.

  ‘Eastwood, can you make PB One with Saunders?’

  ‘Sir!’

  No hesitation. Not a hint of it. Liam knew right then that Clint was exactly the kind of soldier he wanted alongside him. He was professional, knew exactly what he was doing, and got the job done, period.

  ‘On my order, everyone will provide covering fire. Cowell?’

  Cowell came back with, ‘Sir?’

  ‘Once Eastwood is at PB One, we extract the rest of the team. Covering fire will be provided from the compound.’

  Cowell acknowledged the order. Liam didn’t want to think about Saunders. Couldn’t. He still had to fight his own way back to the PB and stay alive.

  On Steers’s order, the world erupted again with a hail of metal. Liam saw Clint jump up, Martin across his shoulders in a fireman’s carry. He was racing hard, sprinting to Patrol Base 1. Hell, he was quick . . .

  ‘The rest of you – MOVE!’ Steers’s voice was as commanding over the PRR as it was in real life.

  Liam was up and he was off, drawing on energy reserves only a squaddie would know about.

  The compound was alive with the excitement of the firefight. Liam raced through the doors and looked around for Clint. Soldiers were everywhere.

  ‘Scott! Up there! Now!’

  It was Miller, pointing to the walls. Liam pushed aside his worry for Martin and headed off.

  Up top, he had a better view of the compound. It was much bigger than the compounds he’d stayed in before. Not only that, it housed considerably more men. During his last tour, it had been just one multiple at a patrol base. Here, though, a number of multiples were stationed together, as the British forces had reduced the number of patrol bases considerably.

  Liam ignored his observations and got down to laying down some fire. He changed another magazine, then zipped the rounds into where the few remaining Taliban were hiding. He was fully focused. All that mattered was being a soldier, standing side by side with his mates, and taking the fight back good and hard against those who’d brought it to their door.

  ‘Stop!’

  It was the lieutenant’s voice and on his command everyone in the compound eased off their triggers.

  An eerie silence cascaded into the space where the rattle and clatter of gunfire had lived. It was so acutely different that for a second Liam, ears ringing from the rounds, wondered if he could actually hear the silence.

  Movement behind him. The lieutenant was calling soldiers over, putting a group together to go check on the damage. They’d be covered by everyone else in the compound. It had to be done now, and quickly. If there was the chance of a prisoner, this was the best time to go hunting. It was also a good idea to make sure no one went running back to the Taliban with further news. Or to bring back immediate reinforcements.

  Weapon made safe, sweat pouring from him now, and the exertion of the firefight quickly ripping itself through his every fibre, Liam went and found Clint, who was crouched on the ground and leaning against a wall. He was covered in dust, his clothing patched with sweat, but darker stains lay there too: blood.

  ‘What’s happened? Where is he? Where’s Mascot?’

  ‘We think he got cut off from the rest of us when we bugged out of the Chinook,’ said Clint, clearly using all the energy he had left to keep his voice steady and his emotions in check. ‘Ran the wrong way or something. We don’t know. His body—’

  Liam caught the word, threw it back fast-ball quick. ‘What do you mean, his body? He was shot, right? Wounded! What’s happened?’

  Clint took a deep breath. Liam could see now that he was holding back tears. And that was enough. He didn’t need to hear any more. He knew. But still the words came, slow and horrid and wrong.

  ‘We found him out on his own,’ Clint said. ‘Lying face down in a shallow scrape, covering himself, like we all did, when the second RPG hit.’

  Liam didn’t want to hear it. Not again. Not Martin. Was he destined to lose close friends for the rest of his life? Was he a jinx? Bad luck for others?

  ‘A stray round must’ve got him,’ said Clint. ‘Somehow, it—’ His voice broke. ‘I . . . we did what we could, Liam, but he was gone by the time we got to the compound.’

  The twisted, raw emotions of the moment ripped out of Liam in a roar. He grabbed Clint, heaved him up against a wall. ‘Why weren’t you with him? Why wasn’t someone with him? He was new! How the fuck could this happen?’

  Clint faced Liam down. ‘It’s no one’s fault, Scott,’ he said, voice measured, but cracking. ‘It could’ve just as easily been you or me.’

  ‘Bollocks, it could!’ Liam spat back. ‘Someone should’ve been with him! It should’ve been me or you! He was counting on us, Cowboy, and we fucking well failed him!’

  ‘You want to punch me, go ahead, if it’ll make you feel better,’ said Clint.

  Liam wanted to. He wanted to lash out and kick the living shit out of everything in sight, rip down walls, tear doors to splinters. But it would make no difference at all.

  ‘He’s gone, mate,’ said Clint. ‘There’s nothing we can do.’

  Liam tried to struggle, but his fight had evaporated. ‘I was gonna look out for him,’ he said. ‘After we got hit, I . . . but . . .’ His voice died as a volley of images of Martin filled his mind. He hadn’t known him long, but the loss was an earthquake and it had completely destabilized him. ‘It can’t be true,’ he said at last, finding his strength again, standing to talk to Clint. ‘You’re sure it’s him? Absolutely sure?’

  He then saw Rob walk past and remembered what he’d said.

  ‘Someone tipped them off . . .’ Liam’s voice was quiet, a whisper almost.

  Clint leaned in. ‘You what?’

  ‘They knew we were coming.’

  ‘They couldn’t have done,’ said Clint. ‘We just turned up at the wrong time. What you’re suggesting is, well, it’s just not right. And neither is it possible.’

  ‘I’m not suggesting anything,’ said Liam. ‘I’m just saying we need to keep an eye out, that’s all, just in case.’

  Clint shook his head. ‘What have you heard? Who told you this?’

  Liam said nothing more about it, and changed the subject back to Martin. ‘We’ll need to sort his kit out,’ he said. ‘I did it for Cam.’

  ‘We can do it together,’ Clint replied, voice calm, reassuring. ‘If that’s OK with you? We both knew him.’

  ‘He didn’t even get a chance to fight back,’ Liam muttered, the fight gone from his voice, but not from the sentiment. ‘The bastards . . .’

  Clint rested a hand on Liam’s shoulder, his eyes dark and fierce. ‘Scott, mate, that’s our job, right?’


  Cowell’s voice came over the PRR. The medevac had arrived and Liam could hear the distinct throb of another Chinook coming in to land next to its dead sister.

  ‘Not exactly the Hilton, is it?’

  Clint was with Liam, carrying their kit across the compound like two well-trained pack horses. Evening was drawing in. It wasn’t dark yet, but the sun was low and bleeding across the sky like it too had been wounded in the fight. Soldiers milled everywhere.

  The multiple that Liam’s had replaced at Patrol Base 1 were on their way back to Camp Bastion with the casualties. The last time Liam had been in Afghanistan, the checkpoints he’d manned up in Helmand had all been absolute hell holes. They’d even called one Room 101, it had been such a total nightmare. Cut off and falling apart, the only way to improve it would’ve been to flatten it with a few well-aimed JDAMs, huge unguided gravity bombs with massive destructive power. It certainly couldn’t have been any worse. Or at least that was what Liam had thought until thirty seconds ago.

  ‘Have we just walked onto the set of a movie about the early days of the Foreign Legion?’ he asked, trying to take it all in.

  ‘Even those nutjobs wouldn’t put up with this,’ said Clint. ‘It’s an old police station. Not that you can tell that now, thanks to all the HESCOs surrounding it.’

  HESCO was the name given to the huge multi-cellular wall units, filled with whatever material was available to hand – in this case, sand – that protected patrol bases all over Afghanistan. Tested against charges of up to 20,000lb, the HESCO system was, quite literally, bombproof.

  Liam agreed with Clint. The countless HESCOs around the walls gave no indication of what the building inside had once been. That the compound had walls was about all the place had going for it, thought Liam, dropping his kit down. It was little better than a tidy building site. Most of the walls were not only reinforced on the outside with sandbags, but on the inside too, as well as with botched struts made from scrap pieces of wood doing their best to stop the place falling in on itself. During its occupation by UK troops, various shelters had been erected, oddly shaped constructions built from scaffolding, scraps of wooden crates, and canvas tarpaulin. Liam had seen pictures, short films, of refugee camps in war zones. This looked worse. And dust and dirt covered everything.