The Kill Zone (17 page)

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Authors: Chris Ryan

BOOK: The Kill Zone
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Sitting in the darkness outside the hospital she cried all the tears she had in her.
When she could cry no more, she took deep breaths. Tried to get control of her body and her mind.
She looked at the Polaroid and Lily stared back at her, as though begging her for help.
She was
going
to find her daughter.
She didn’t know how and she didn’t know where, but come hell or high water, she was
going
to find her. She’d let Lily down once before and she wasn’t going to do it again.
There was something else she had to do. Someone she had to tell. Lily’s father deserved to know what was happening. He hadn’t exactly been the best dad in the world; they might not have even spoken for, what was it? A year? But although he’d been an intermittent figure in their lives, that didn’t mean she shouldn’t tell him the horrific news about their daughter.
And it didn’t mean she shouldn’t ask him for help.
Siobhan’s mind was a mess but one thing was perfectly clear to her: if she was going to find Lily, he was one of the few people she’d trust to be on board.
She took another deep breath, then pulled her phone from her leather jacket. She scrolled through the address book and a name appeared on the screen.
Harker, Jack.
She imagined the phone ringing in the little flat in Hereford. An answer machine, naturally. No name, of course. No indication of where he was. Just an electronic voice asking her to leave a message. And so she did.
‘Jack,’ she said, unable to stop her voice wavering. ‘It’s Siobhan. I don’t know where you are but . . . I just have to speak to you, all right? Just call me . . .’
Siobhan hung up. She knew she should really have called the Regiment offices, gone through the official channels. But that wasn’t her way, and it wasn’t Jack’s either. He’d call her when he was ready.
But God only knew where he was now . . .
28 JUNE
8
Camp Bastion Field Hospital.
12.00 hrs.
‘Jesus, doctor. Not my legs . . .
Don’t take my fucking legs . . .
’
The voice was slurred but frightened. Its owner screamed. Then sobbed. It was this noise that woke Jack.
He opened his eyes and tried to look around, but his movement was obstructed by the oxygen mask on his face. He ripped it off and sat up, then winced as every muscle in his body seemed to shriek at him.
He was in a hospital bed, one of many, all of them filled with casualties. The screaming faded away as the injured man was hurriedly wheeled into surgery.
It was a big ward – perhaps twenty beds – with bright strip lighting shining overhead and all the paraphernalia of an up-to-date field hospital. A drip stand with a saline bag stood next to Jack’s bed, and a machine monitoring his pulse and blood pressure. He flopped back down on the bed and tried to remember how he’d got there.
There were just flashes in his memory. Trekking across the desert towards the FOB and pressing himself into the sand every time a lume lit up the sky. Forcing himself to move on, despite his body shouting out for water and rest. The constant worry of IEDs. And on arrival at the FOB, which he’d approached with arms in the air shouting, ‘
British soldier! British soldier!
’, being casevaced back to Bastion by Chinook. That was the last thing he remembered, and he didn’t know how long ago it was. Could have been an hour, could have been a day, could have been a week . . .
And then he remembered the helicopter crash.
Pixie, Al and Red. Jesus, Red.
Jack could hardly believe he was alive.
‘What’s happened to your oxygen mask?’ A nurse was standing over him, a frown on her plain face.
‘How long have I been here?’ Jack demanded.
‘Not nearly long enough. You’ve been out cold for more than twenty-four hours and you need your oxygen mask on. Your blood count—’
‘Look, love,’ Jack interrupted her. ‘Do me a favour and treat the guys without legs.’ He pushed himself up on to his elbows again and tried to ignore the wave of dizzy nausea that crashed over him. ‘I need to see my OC. Will you get a message to him?’
The nurse’s lips thinned, but she nodded. Then she looked over to the other side of the ward. ‘Looks like you’ve got a visitor,’ she said.
Jack followed her gaze. Walking across the ward towards him was a woman. For a moment, he failed to recognise her: auburn hair, blue-grey eyes and the kind of pale skin that suggested she hadn’t been in the Stan for long. Only when she was a couple of metres from the bed did he realise who it was.
‘Morning, Professor.’ He looked around. ‘Or maybe it’s afternoon.’
‘About midday,’ Caroline Stenton said, her face expressionless. ‘It’s good to see you, Captain Harker. They told me you were dead.’
‘They exaggerated.’
A silence.
‘I’m sorry about your friends,’ Caroline said.
Jack looked away. Images of the burning helicopter branded themselves on his mind yet again. He only looked back when he realised that the woman had laid one hand on his arm. Her lips were glossy and slightly parted, and in the back of his mind he wondered what the hell kind of a person brought lipstick out to Camp Bastion.
‘I feel responsible, Jack,’ she said, and there was a catch in her voice. ‘Can I call you Jack?’
He nodded.
‘They told me it would be dangerous,’ she continued, ‘but I never thought . . .’
Her curly auburn hair was pinned up at the back to reveal the nape of her neck, but now a tendril fell over her face and she brushed it gently away with her free hand. She brushed the other hand gently up his arm.
Jack felt something stirring inside, but he ignored it. Nothing like that was going to happen out here.
‘You want to make it up to me,’ he replied in a gruff voice, ‘how about telling me what the hell was in that suitcase I nearly died trying to recover.’
For a moment she didn’t reply. She just stared at him, as though sizing him up. Eventually she lifted her hand from his arm. ‘I can’t tell you that, Jack. I’m sorry.’ She looked across the room. ‘Looks like you’re a popular man. I don’t want to monopolise you. I fly back to London today.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Lucky me.’ She pulled a card from her pocket and laid it gently at Jack’s bedside. ‘Any time you need a shoulder to cry on . . .’ She allowed her eyes to linger on his bare chest.
And with that, she walked away from the bed and out of the ward. Jack watched her hips as she went.
Her place was taken by Harry Palgrave. The squadron OC was a stern man at the best of times, but he wore a particularly serious expression now. ‘Hope I didn’t interrupt,’ he said in a voice that made it plain he didn’t give a shit.
Jack watched Caroline disappear with a hint of regret. Then he turned back to Palgrave. ‘No, boss,’ he said.
‘Fuck me, Jack,’ the OC continued quietly. ‘We were all ready to carve your name on the memorial along with the others.’
‘What can I say, boss? I lucked out.’
Palgrave shrugged. ‘There’s two kinds of luck, Jack – the luck you get, and the luck you make yourself. You don’t survive an attack like that without a bit of the second kind. How you feeling?’
‘Like shit.’
‘You look like it too. We’re going to let them patch you up a bit in here, then we need to do a solid debrief. You good with that?’
Jack looked around. The ward stank of disinfectant and illness; injured soldiers lay perfectly still in every bed. Not his kind of place at all. In a sudden movement he swung his legs over the edge of the bed, then carefully extracted the drip needle from his arm. He felt momentarily dizzy, but mastered it.
‘Boss,’ he said, ‘I know where the Stingers are.’
Palgrave narrowed his eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘There’s a weapons arsenal where they held me.’
The two men looked at each other. ‘I need to get you talking,’ Palgrave said, his face grim. ‘You up to it?’
Jack nodded. ‘How does now suit you?’ he asked.
‘Ops centre in fifteen?’
‘Make it ten,’ Jack said, and he started to get dressed.
There were three of them in the ops centre: Jack, Palgrave and ops officer Matt Cooper. Palgrave smelt of ciggies, Cooper smelt of chewing gum. They both looked like they’d had a hell of time of it back at base. The air conditioning was on, but it just brought the heat down from fifty degrees to forty-five. They were sweating like pigs as they settled down to talk.
The door opened, and a figure walked in. Jack recognised him at once – the MoD goon who had briefed them before the op, and whose instruction it had been to stay behind and lase the cave. His short, tightly curled hair was greased straight back, and he had a moustache that looked like someone had shat on his lip. He saw Jack and smiled. ‘Captain Harker!’ he announced, his voice all Eton and Cambridge. ‘Nigel Willoughby. You’ll remember me, of course. It’s good to see you alive, sir!’
Jack was already on his feet. His chair fell to the floor behind him as he strode over to the goon, grabbed him by the neck and pressed him up against the wall. ‘Yeah,’ he growled, ‘I remember you. You’re the asshole who kept me and my men on the ground long after we should have extracted.’
A sharp voice from behind. Palgrave. ‘Put him down, Jack!’
‘With pleasure.’ He flung the goon to the ground like he was a rag doll. Willoughby scrambled to his feet, shot Jack a poisonous look, then quickly dusted himself down and picked up a folder full of documents that had tumbled to the floor with him. He straightened his hair, then spoke like a thin-lipped schoolmaster. ‘I shall put your behaviour, Captain Harker, down to the stress of the last forty-eight hours and not report it to the appropriate authorities. But let me assure you, if there is any repeat—’
‘Leave it, Willoughby,’ Palgrave interrupted in a menacing voice. ‘Just sit down and we’ll get on with the debrief.’
Willoughby sniffed, passed his palm over his greased hair for a second time and took a seat.
‘All right, Jack,’ Palgrave continued. ‘Let’s have it.’
The three of them listened carefully as Jack described what had happened since the cave raid.
You think you’d recognise this fucker again?’ Palgrave asked.
Jack nodded. ‘I’ll just check the fingers.’
‘Actually, gentlemen,’ Willoughby interrupted, ‘that won’t be necessary.’ He sounded a bit less sure of himself than when he’d first entered.
Jack gave him a sour look. ‘What are you talking about?’
The goon opened up a file that he had on the table in front of him, rummaged through some papers and pulled out a photograph. ‘Is this your man, Captain Harker?’
It was a grainy photograph, taken from distance, of a man with an assault rifle strapped to his body standing next to an armoured vehicle. Behind him, Jack could see snowy mountain peaks – this had obviously been taken during the winter – but there was no mistaking the face: the black beard, flecked with grey; the brown eyes; the look.
Jack laid the photo back down on the table. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘That’s him. Friend of yours?’
‘We’re well aware of him,’ said the goon. ‘Let’s just say he’s high up on our wish list.’
‘Let’s just say he’s pretty high up on my wish list, too.’ He remembered the video footage of the American soldier screaming as he was being flayed. ‘What’s the bastard’s name?’
Willoughby seemed to regain his arrogance. Being the man in the know suited him down to the ground. ‘Gentlemen, allow me to introduce you to Farzad Haq. Iranian national, orphaned at a young age. He and his younger brother . . .’ The MoD man checked his notes. ‘. . .  Adel were brought up by his grandparents, but they go off our intelligence radar when Haq was about nine years old – we don’t know how or why, and we don’t know how the boys managed without anyone
in loco parentis
. What we do know is this: when the Iraqis invaded Iran later that year, Haq’s younger brother was killed by Saddam’s forces. Scud missile attack on the border, I believe. There were a great many fatalities. This was in the days when we and the Americans supported Saddam’s regime.’ He smiled at Palgrave and Cooper. ‘Funny how things change, isn’t it?’
If the others thought it
was
funny, they didn’t show it.
The goon continued. ‘Haq next pops up on our radar about ten years later as part of an Al Qaeda cell. When the Taliban came to power in Afghanistan in ninety-six, they gave him sanctuary, and he was able to establish a number of terrorist training camps in the north of the country. We have pretty good intelligence that he was involved in some way with the World Trade Center bombings
and
9/11, so we can assume he’s had some sort of direct contact with Bin Laden.’
‘Sounds like a textbook fundamentalist fuck,’ Matt Cooper said.

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