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.
Now the airfield was alive with troops, pouring fire down on the remaining insurgents. Slow to react, the full force of the ISAF had now been brought to bear. It was as good as over.
Tom ran up to the two boys spread-eagled on the flight line. One was dead, the other wounded but conscious, on his back, his right arm trapped under him. He couldn’t have been more than thirteen, the new ANA uniform stiff and several sizes too large, the old sneakers dangling off his feet split at the sides, the soles completely worn through. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder. On its way it had burst the breast pocket of his tunic, exploding a bag of nuts and raisins that were now scattered over his chest. He was saying something over and over. Isa, Isa.