THE STREET SOLDIER SERIES
Street Soldier
Silent Weapon
THE LIAM SCOTT SERIES
The New Recruit
The New Patrol
The New Enemy
DROPZONE
Dropzone
Dropzone: Terminal Velocity
BOY SOLDIER (with Robert Rigby)
Boy Soldier
Payback
Avenger
Meltdown
OTHER NOVELS:
Aggressor
Battle Lines (with Kym Jordan)
Brute Force
Crisis Four
Crossfi re
Dark Winter
Dead Centre
Deep Black
Detonator
Exit Wound
Firewall
Fortress
For Valour
Last Light
Liberation Day
Recoil
Red Notice
Remote Control
Silencer
State of Emergency
War Torn (with Kym Jordan)
Zero Hour
NON-FICTION:
Bravo Two Zero
Immediate Action
On the Rock
Seven Troop
Sorted!:The Good Psychopath’s Guide to Bossing your Life
(with Professor Kevin Dutton)
Spoken from the Front
The Good Psychopath’s Guide to Success (with Professor Kevin Dutton)
Today Everything Changes
RHCP DIGITAL
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RHCP Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.
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First published by Doubleday 2017
This ebook published 2017
Text copyright © Andy McNab, 2017
Cover image credit: collaboration JS
With thanks to Ben Jeapes
The moral right of the author has been asserted
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
ISBN: 978–1–448–19704–0
All correspondence to:
RHCP Digital
Penguin Random House Children’s
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL
ACOG – Advanced Combat Optical Gunsight, providing up to six times fixed-power magnification, illuminated at night by an internal phosphor
AK-47 Kalashnikov – a selective-fire (semi-automatic and automatic), gas-operated 7.62mm by 39mm assault rifle
ANFO – Ammonium Nitrate, Fuel Oil – one of the most popular low-explosive lifting charges in use today
Biorepository – a place that collects, processes, stores and distributes biological specimens for future research
Boko Haram – an Islamic extremist group in Nigeria
C-17 Globemaster – a large military transport aircraft
CamelBak – back-worn hydration pack
COBRA – Cabinet Office Briefing Room: the location for a type of crisis-response committee set up to respond to instances of national or regional crisis
EOD – Explosive Ordnance Disposal. Sits alongside improvised explosive device disposal (IEDD) as a particular form of bomb disposal
Fusiliers – an infantry regiment of the British Army, part of the Queen’s Division
GSW – Gun Shot Wound
Guerrilla – a member of an unauthorized military unit, usually with a political objective such as to overthrow a government
Heckler & Koch MP5 – 9mm submachine gun built by Heckler & Koch
HG85 grenade – a spherical grenade that, on detonation, fragments the outer shell
IED – an Improvised Explosive Device, which can be placed on the ground or used by suicide bombers; sometimes activated by remote control
Int – army term for intelligence: information collected on, for example, enemy movements
Lancers – The Royal Lancers, a cavalry regiment of the British Army
MC – Military Cross: a medal awarded to officers and other ranks in the British Armed Forces, in recognition of acts of bravery during active service
MI5 – a British intelligence agency working to protect the UK’s national security against threats such as terrorism and espionage
Mk 7 helmet – a general-issue combat helmet for the British Armed Forces
MO – Medical Officer
MoD – Ministry of Defence. Their aim is to protect the security, independence and interests of our country at home and abroad. They ensure that the armed forces have the training, equipment and support necessary for their work
Molotov cocktail – generic name for a variety of bottle-based improvised incendiary weapons; more commonly known as a petrol bomb
NATO – North Atlantic Treaty Organization: an organization whose essential purpose is to safeguard the freedom and security of its members through political and military means
NCO – Non-Commissioned Officer, for instance a corporal or sergeant
No. 8 Temperate Combat Dress – this replaced the Nos. 5 and 9 Dress, in what is known as the Personal Clothing System (PCS). It is based around a Multi-Terrain Pattern (MTP) windproof smock, a lightweight jacket and trousers with a range of ancillaries such as thermals and waterproofs
NSP – Normal Safety Procedure
OP – Observation Post
PCS – Personal Clothing System: the new uniform for the British military phased in after 2011
Phosphorous smoke bombs – a smoke bomb that spreads quickly, burning white phosphorous and creating a dense cloud of concealment
PLCE – Personal Load Carrying Equipment: the current tactical webbing system of the British Armed Forces
Pressel switch – a switch operated by a push-button, usually hanging from a wire and used especially on radios and other communication equipment
PRR – Personal Role Radio: small transmitter–receiver radio that enables soldiers to communicate over short distances, and through buildings and walls
PTSD – Post Traumatic Stress Disorder: a condition of persistent mental and emotional stress occurring as a result of injury or severe psychological shock
RPG – Rocket-Propelled Grenade
SA80 – semi-automatic rifle made by Heckler & Koch, the standard British Army rifle
SAS – Special Air Service, tasked to operate in difficult and often changing circumstances, within situations that have significant operational and strategic importance
SCO19 – a Specialist Crime & Operations branch within Greater London’s Metropolitan Police Service. The Command is responsible for providing a firearms-response capability, assisting the rest of the service, which is not routinely armed
Sitrep – Situation report
Special Branch – units responsible for matters of national security in the British and Commonwealth police forces
TLDR – Too long, didn’t read
Warrior – a series of British armoured vehicles, originally developed to replace the older FV430 series of armoured vehicles
Wolf – a light military Land Rover
YOI – Young Offender Institution, a type of British prison intended for offenders between eighteen and twenty, although some prisons cater for younger offenders from ages fifteen to seventeen, who are classed as juvenile offenders
Sean Harker saw the danger racing towards them in the headlights.
‘Target is fifty – that’s five zero—’
‘Brace!’ Sean shouted. He kept his grip on the steering wheel – too late, too dangerous to swerve – and felt the bone-crunching thud run through his body as the Land Rover Wolf hit the pothole. He lurched into his seat belt. In the split second before the engine caught up with the fact that the vehicle had slowed down, Sean had jammed his foot on the clutch, shoved the stick one gear too low and released the clutch again. His foot stayed on the accelerator. The engine howled and the whole vehicle lunged forward, hurling him and a section of seven heavily armed bastards down the streets of night-time Lagos in pursuit of two fleeing terrorist suspects.
‘Bloody hell, Stenders!’ That was Johnny ‘Shitey’ Bright, one member of his human cargo clinging on in the back. None of them had belts.
Corporal Joe Wolston, next to him in the front, tugged at his seat belt to loosen its death grip on his body.
‘Try not to lose the lads, Harker?’ he grunted with all the cool and authority of a man who had faced worse shit than Sean ever had. He tugged the mike of his PRR back towards his mouth and finished his report. ‘Target is fifty – that’s five zero metres ahead.’
Sean bared his teeth. Even at this speed, the blast of warm tropical night air in his face made sweat trickle down beneath the rim of his domed Mk 7 helmet. He shook his head to keep the drops from stinging his eyes as he fixed them on the swerving tail light of the target ahead. His arms ached from hauling the powerful vehicle round the rubbish heaps, and clapped-out cars, and crowds of Nigerians out to enjoy the city nightlife.
But it felt good. After six months of taking care – looking twice at every shadow in case it contained an insurgent, at every bump in the road in case it concealed an IED – the British Army were now the ones in pursuit. Pity the two guys ahead. If the lads could just catch up with this pair, then they would be on the receiving end of six months’ pent-up tension.
And the Wolf was gaining. The two suspects were on a scooter, and its little putt-putt engine could never compete with a 300Tdi – on the straight and level, that is. Earlier they had tried to make a break down Lagos’s A1 highway, and the Wolf had come within metres of them. Then they had veered off onto a side road, and the game got harder again. The Wolf had power, but it also had bulk. It couldn’t just dance round any obstacles in the way, and it couldn’t just go through them, either.
But, Sean told himself as the speedo crept up and the revs crept down, all things considered, a fifty-metre gap swerving about in this traffic stream was pretty fucking good. None of the other lads could have done it. It wasn’t the first car chase he had been in, though it was the first where he was the one doing the chasing. He wondered if the cops he had so often led a dance round the North Circular in a wired Beamer or Merc had got as much of a blast as he was getting now.
And speaking of cops, there they were – a fence of flashing blue and red lights racing down the road towards them. Within a couple of minutes the suspects would have to turn off again. Left or right? Sean braced himself, ready to match whichever way they went.
Wolston spoke into the PRR. ‘Hound One, what is your position?’
‘On Herbert Macaulay Road, heading south. Estimate we are running parallel to your course, probably half a k behind.’
The platoon’s other section was in a Wolf like theirs, under the command of Sergeant Phil Adams. Adams’s voice was crackly in their ears. PRR was designed to hold platoons together on foot, not coordinate vehicle chases, and the second Wolf must have been right on the edge of the radio’s 500-metre range.
‘Roger that, Hound One,’ Wolston confirmed. ‘You going to come and join us?’
‘Negative – local int suggests that any moment now your lads are going to hang a left, and then we will converge—’
The scooter’s red tail light suddenly ducked off to the left, darting between a bus and an ancient VW Beetle.
‘There they go!’ Sean shouted. He just managed to bring the speeding two-tonne vehicle round without turning it over. The tyres ground against the road surface, digging into the loose grit and gravel and spitting them behind as the Wolf took to its new course.
‘Hound One, that’s the players heading towards Herbert Macaulay, ETA one minute. How did you know it would be left?’ Wolston asked.
‘Local liaison says they’ll be heading for Makoko. That is a shanty town – half of it’s on stilts over the lagoon.’
Sean filled in the blanks, and coaxed another five mph out of the engine without being asked. They had to get the suspects before they reached Makoko. A Wolf could never follow a scooter into a town built on stilts.
The Wolf shuddered so much on the bad road that it was like driving into a succession of brick walls, but now its powerful headlamps were close enough to light up the scooter. The next few things happened almost simultaneously. The pillion passenger on the scooter twisted round and raised his right arm in a gesture Sean recognized.
Fuck!
It took all his self-control not to stamp on the brakes or twist the wheel over – following the basic human instinct to avoid death. The windshield in front of his face starred and cracked, and he was squinting at the embedded lump of lead that would have drilled right between his eyes but for the Wolf’s armoured glass.
The part of his mind not concentrating on navigating took a moment to realize that the shit had finally got real. In nearly two years of army service – in nearly nineteen years of life – it was the first shot ever fired at Sean in anger. It made a subtle but very important change to their situation. The section was no longer just in pursuit of suspects. It could now reasonably say that it was in danger, and take the appropriate action to defend itself.
‘We’re taking hits!’ Wolston shouted. ‘Abort!’
Sean had learned to obey orders quickly – do first and think later. But this order, coming from Wolston of all people, didn’t feel right. It surprised him enough to delay him for half a second. And then it was countermanded by a voice that Sean would never disobey in a thousand years.
‘Negative! Keep going!’ Adams bellowed in fury. ‘Step up the pace! The more they shake, rattle and roll, the more they’ll cling on for dear life and not take pops at anyone. Harker, I want you breaking the fucking land speed record!’
‘Yes, Sergeant!’ Sean shouted.
Dimly he realized he had no idea what was happening. The NCOs were disagreeing. People were shooting at him. He did the only thing a soldier can: follow orders and keep going.
He had the brief impression of something heavy swooping in the humid air above him, and suddenly a bright white light from the sky was pinpointing the scooter like a death ray from a skyscraper-busting alien spaceship. Over the roar of the Wolf’s engine he caught the thud-thud-thud of heli blades.
Shit, the air force were in on this too. Everyone was in on it. Sean could almost feel sorry for the suspects.
Almost.
The pair had done almost everything right – until they were spotted emerging from a hole cut in the army base fence. They had been round the back, away from the main gate, and had obviously timed it between sentry patrols to give themselves maximum opportunity. But they had done it just as two Wolfs full of British soldiers, a whole platoon of Fusiliers, were coming back from exercise, fully kitted and tooled up.
Two days earlier, insurgents had raided a village between Lagos and Ibadan, less than thirty miles from their present position. Boko Haram were meant to be holed up in the mountains on the other side of the country. The possibility that they were making a comeback – or, worse, that a new force was emerging to replace them – meant that the battalion had been on full alert ever since.
The suspects hadn’t had a chance. The chase was on the moment they were clocked.
Commands and responses shot back and forth over the PRR. Adams’s speed-up strategy had worked – there was no way the suspects could afford the luxury of firing back and keeping hold of their ride at the same time. The heli searchlight still impaled them from above.
‘If it looks like they’re getting away, ram them,’ Wolston ordered.
Sean gripped the wheel a little more tightly and forced extra power out of the engine.
It would be impossible to open fire safely from the Wolf without endangering civilians. The best weapon they could use was the vehicle itself. It wasn’t something Sean wanted to do, but it beat being killed.
And then the scooter was barrelling down an alley, piles of rotting rubbish on either side and a wheel-less Toyota partly blocking the way. The Wolf was barely twenty metres behind when the lamps of Hound One swung into the alleyway ahead, silhouetting the players in a neon outline. The suspects were trapped – they weren’t going anywhere. As the scooter skidded to a halt, Sean swung the Wolf to a halt across the alley so that their retreat was completely blocked.
The sections were already piling out of the Wolfs, SA80 rifles in their shoulders, ACOG gunsights fixed unerringly on the two suspects’ heads – a body shot could set off a suicide vest. Only Sean and Tommy Penfold, Hound One’s driver, stayed in their places. Sean gripped the wheel, bracing himself for whatever was to come as he clocked the two suspects. Their eyes were wide, their faces stamped with looks of terror. They weren’t much more than kids.
The two sections advanced from either direction, with Adams and Wolston at the front. The suspects raised their hands above their heads, resigned to their fates. The scooter toppled over. Sean took in their battered jeans and faded multi-coloured shirts, and stared closely at each upraised hand. They had all heard scenarios of a cornered bomber surrounded by infidels taking the quick way out to Paradise. One little switch concealed in the palm was all it needed.
The driver’s shirt clung to his body, damp with sweat, and Sean couldn’t see any outline of a suicide vest. But the other one had a backpack and was still gripping the pistol he had used to fire at the Wolf.
Adams grabbed him first and pushed him to his knees, relieving him of the weapon in the same move. The other one was pushed down too, both of them frisked while they kept their hands on their heads. The boys stared wide-eyed at the half-circle of rifles aimed at them.
Adams studied the backpack, then slowly lifted the flap. Sean’s fingers tensed on the wheel, which would have made sod-all difference if several pounds of explosive had suddenly gone off. But Adams must have already decided it wasn’t a bomb. He barked a harsh laugh, and roughly pulled the pack off the boy’s back before turning it upside down. Several round metal objects tumbled out.
Someone shouted, ‘Grenade!’
But only a couple of lads flinched. Most of them stood their ground, on the basis that their sergeant wouldn’t be chucking explosive ordnance around.
Adams shot a withering look at the soldier who had shouted, and stooped to pick up one of the objects. He held it in front of the thief’s eyes, then up for everyone to see.
‘Insecticide spray,’ he said loudly. ‘Nice one. First thing they got their hands on that they thought would sell, no questions asked, at the local market. Only’ – he rapped the thief on the head – ‘it’s British MoD issue insecticide, you dickhead! Clearly labelled! You know this would instantly be identified as stolen? That you could have only got it from one place in the whole country? Pillock.’
He looked around. ‘They’re just kids. Chancers.’
The tension in the air evaporated.
Of course, as Sean and everyone knew, being a kid didn’t stop you being one of Boko Haram’s finest. The extremist group – a constant thorn in the side of the Nigerian Army, which was why the British Army was out here training them – was perfectly capable of sticking an AK-47 Kalashnikov in the hands of a ten-year-old, pointing them at the enemy and telling them to pull the trigger or have their throat cut. But the insecticide was kind of a giveaway. These two were just a pair of opportunists trying to lift supplies from the camp. Local kids, not too bothered about issues of ownership if it helped them get ahead.
A pair of young African Sean Harkers, in fact.
The police sirens were drawing near.
‘Wood, Jardim, keep an eye on them,’ Adams snapped. ‘We’ll hand them over to the local plod when they show up.’ He jerked his head at Wolston, summoning him to one side. ‘So, Joe,’ he said with quiet intensity. ‘Abort? What the fuck was that all about? You’ve been fired at before, for Christ’s sake. Did you abort then?’
Sean couldn’t help earwigging. Now he’d had time to breathe and think, he reckoned that abort command had been uncharacteristic. Wolston had served with distinction in Afghanistan and had the Military Cross to prove it.
‘No, I did not,’ Wolston said hotly, ‘because in Afghanistan I was allowed to shoot back. Rules of Engagement, Sergeant – they were taking wild potshots with a popgun. It didn’t justify responding with half a doz SA80s.’
‘Hmm.’ Adams grunted and looked at him sideways, then patted him on the shoulder. ‘Your hot seat, your call. Just remember that the key word in the Rules of Engagement is still engagement. These ones were innocent. Doesn’t mean the next ones will be. And I see the popgun still scored a hit.’
He ran his fingers over the starred glass and stared down at Sean. ‘Bit of a first for you, Fusilier. How are you feeling?’
Sean still had adrenalin pumping through his system. ‘Just fucking grateful for armoured glass, Sergeant,’ he said.
Adams grinned. ‘Excellent. I always appreciate a straight, honest answer. And it won’t be the last time someone takes a shot at you.’
He turned away and addressed both sections. ‘We’ll wait here until the cops show up, then proceed back to base in convoy. And just in case you’re all thinking tonight has had a happy ending, think on this …’ He had his hands on his hips, and a flat grin that always meant he was being deadly serious. ‘Thanks to this little op, word will be out all around Lagos that two sections of the Royal Regiment of Fusiliers are on the edge of Makoko and will now be heading back to their base, so if anyone fancies having a pop, now’s their chance. And once we’re back on base, don’t any of you lot think that, just because we’re going home in twenty-four hours, tomorrow’s going to be any easier. Not a chance!’
The canteen was full of chat and unfamiliar faces. Sean shuffled along the breakfast queue, with Bright close behind him.
He snuck a look at all the newbies. Everyone was in the same khaki T-shirts and PCS trousers – the multi-terrain pattern of light greens and greys – but somehow you could spot the ones who hadn’t spent half a year in a tropical climate. He guessed he must have looked that fresh in his own first week.
After a six-month tour in Lagos Sean’s battalion had already handed over to its replacement and departed for home – all except for Nine Platoon, who were the ones chosen to stay behind and complete the transition. Their job was to show the newcomers the ranges and the training areas, introduce them to the locals, hand the camp over – and go out with them on their first patrol. Sean’s own experience had told him that it was one thing poncing around on Salisbury Plain pretending there were insurgents behind every bush; it was another out here, where Boko Haram really were an issue.
‘Back in Tidworth tomorrow,’ Sean said. ‘I almost miss it. Apparently there’s a heatwave hitting back home.’
‘Mate, Tidworth is the place God would put the tube if he gave Salisbury Plain an enema,’ Bright said as he dumped his plate down to receive a double helping of scrambled eggs. ‘Roll on Tenerife!’
Which was where they expected to be the day after the day after tomorrow. The lads had a lot of leave piled up and a lot of dosh in the bank, and they were putting it to the best possible use. Forget the UK’s heatwave – this would be the real thing, and none of Nigeria’s tropical crap, either, with its summer rainy season and mosquitoes and flies and humidity. Nothing but sun, sea, señoritas and other things starting with S that Sean had been looking forward to for the last six months.
They took their breakfasts and sat down at the nearest table. They had both gone for the full English – sod the heat, there were traditions, and they would need the energy because they both knew that Adams hadn’t been lying about today.
One thing that Sean had liked about Bright from the start was his attitude to food. It was for eating, not talking. So, as they concentrated on throwing their breakfast down their necks, it took them a moment to clock the new kid standing nearby.
‘Can I …?’ The kid indicated the seat next to them with his tray.
Sean just grunted in a way that said ‘Sure’, so the lad slid his tray down next to him.
‘So, you guys were in that bust last night?’
Sean and Bright exchanged glances. Uh-oh, talker.
‘Listen … can you help me out? I could really do with some guidance. You know, from the guys who know.’ The kid seemed to be concentrating on Bright, maybe because he was obviously the older of the two.
Bright wiped his mouth and glanced at Sean. ‘Mind if I take this one?’
Sean gave a Go-ahead wave, his mouth still full.
‘Always buy them a drink first, only give your phone number if you’re serious, and no means no.’
‘Heh. Sure. No, I meant about … out here.’
Bright burped with a force that gave Sean and the kid fresh partings. ‘You missed the orientation lectures?’
‘Well, no, but … there’s always a shortcut, isn’t there? And there’s always older, wiser guys who know it. Help me get on the inside track, lads?’
Sean and Bright looked at each other again, for half a second longer. Sean hid a smile as Bright regarded the kid thoughtfully.
‘OK. You got all that stuff about malaria? And about taking the anti-malarials, for a start?’
‘Uh – sure. The mosquito bites you and then injects parasites into you as it drinks your blood. The parasites multiply inside you. You get a fever, then you feel sick, then you get the squits and start throwing up. And it can come back again at different times throughout your life. And the anti-malarials? One a day, without fail. And you keep on taking them for weeks after you get back, because the malaria parasite stays in your bloodstream.’ The kid looked pleased with himself.
‘Correctamundo.’ Bright nodded in approval. ‘But what they don’t tell you is, they’re only fifty per cent effective.’
‘Eh?’ The kid looked sideways from Bright to Sean, not sure if he was being ragged.
Sean thought he should help. ‘Maybe seventy-five per cent?’ he said.
Bright shrugged. ‘Maybe. It’s all in the DNA. But the thing is, antibiotic resistance. Every year they’re less and less effective, and the MoD always lags behind the rest of the health industry. There’s defence cuts, and there’s health cuts, so we’re on the receiving end of two sets of cuts, for double the pleasure. True fact. But despair not, Grasshopper.’ He pulled a blister pack from his pocket and popped one of the blue doxycycline tablets onto the table top. ‘Thing is, you have to increase absorption through the mouth membranes. In other words, chew it well and good, don’t just swallow it straight down.’ He popped it into his mouth, and Sean heard crunching as his jaws worked together.
Sean kept his face straight and followed suit with a pill of his own. He chucked it straight down his throat and ground his teeth, though he couldn’t produce the same sound effects as his mate.
The kid looked from one to the other, then took out his own blister pack, popped a tablet and crunched his teeth down on it. His face twisted in revulsion and he almost gagged. ‘Christ, that’s disgusting!’
Sean and Bright hooted and bumped fists over the table. The kid glared at them.
‘Mate.’ Sean shook his head and cheerfully went back to hacking up a sausage. ‘Can’t believe you fell for that one.’
‘OK.’ Bright put his serious face on. ‘Inside-track lesson number one: pay attention in your briefings, try and learn something new every day, and work things out with your mates so that you’re all equally proficient. And don’t listen to what anyone says in the canteen at breakfast. As for the pills – like they say, take one a day and keep doing it, and you’ll be fine. Malaria free. But swallow them whole because, as you now know, they taste like crap.’ Bright grinned. ‘Plus, doxycycline is good for all kinds of other shit too. Like zits. That’s why Harker’s skin is so silky smooth you just want to rub your face against it.’
‘And STDs,’ Sean added, giving Bright the finger, ‘which is why Bright no longer wakes us all up with his groans whenever he takes a midnight slash.’
‘Shit, yeah.’ Bright pulled a face. ‘That was not fun.’
He tapped the kid’s plate where his breakfast – a small helping of eggs and a couple of sausages – was slowly going cold. ‘And eat up. Get second helpings. You’re going to need plenty of energy on patrol.’
‘It’s a twenty-k tab,’ the kid said. ‘I read the briefing. I can run twenty k on this.’
Sean grinned. OK, so the kid was a cocky tosser. Let him learn.
‘Twenty k wading through a swamp,’ Bright said. ‘Think two or three times the effort you’d need normally. Plus tropical heat, sweat, every malarial mosquito you could ever hope to meet … and, you know, the possibility that reports of Boko Haram insurgents might actually be real.’
‘Boko Haram are stuck up in the mountains,’ the kid said. ‘They’re defeated. I read that.’
Bright shook his head. ‘Jesus, it’s like I’m talking another language.’
The kid looked puzzled and Sean had to fill him in.
‘This is a free country, mate. So insurgents can jump on a train and get from one side to another, just like you and me back home. And they don’t wear T-shirts saying Proud to Be a Fundie, Die Infidel. They look like anyone else. So, sure, BH might officially be over there. Just that some of them are over here. Right beside you. Looking at you.’
Bright made cross hairs out of his fingers, and squinted through them across the table at the kid with one eye closed. ‘And they’re thinking, Ooh, I’ll have that one,’ he said. ‘That’s what we’re getting into in’ – he checked his watch – ‘fifty-three minutes’ time.’
‘Right …’ The kid thought for a moment, then pushed his chair back and took his plate to the canteen for an extra helping.
The dark brown water of the mangrove swamp came up to Sean’s knees and swirled in big, lazy whirlpools with every step. The light colours of his MTP trousers were stained dark by the water and the rotting leaves that floated on top.
Something particularly powerful bubbled around his knees. Oily water splashed up his legs and a smell like Satan’s diarrhoea hit his nose. He caught the muffled gasp of disgust from the soldier he had been paired with. It was the kid from the canteen, whose name he had learned was Private Cooke. The patrol was meant to be silent, and if an NCO’s finely tuned ears had caught it, then Cooke would be in for a bollocking.
Sweat dripped into Sean’s eyes and he gave his head a firm shake to clear them. It was the only way that didn’t involve taking your hands off your weapon, and sometimes it could look like the whole platoon were coming down with nervous twitches. Which would probably look funny to a civilian, but Sean had long since stopped caring what civilians thought.
He took a firmer hold of his SA80A2 assault rifle and pressed on.
The two platoons patrolled side by side, Nine Platoon and the new lot. Ruperts – what the rest of the world called officers – at the front, sergeants at the back and other ranks in between. Sean’s peripheral vision kept a fix on Bright’s back as the patrol waded further down the channel, keeping his distance – not so close as to ram his mate up the arse and not so far away as to leave a fatal gap in the patrol’s strength. And meanwhile he scanned the vegetation on either side for signs of danger. As a kid growing up in the crappiest parts of London, Sean had learned to pay attention to his environment at a very early age. The slightest thing out of place or unexpected could be a clue – a sign of an imminent ambush or attack. He hadn’t lost the habit in the jungle. You no longer looked at buildings and lampposts and shadowy corners. You looked at the vegetation, the nearness of the trees, the thickness of the undergrowth around you.
The swamp was a maze of water channels between tangled clusters of trees and roots. Hundreds of square miles of water with God knew what floating about in it and rotting leaves underneath. Kamikaze mozzies that zipped past your head like rounds – and felt like one when they landed – and the certain knowledge that two or three leeches would have attached themselves to you as you waded through the water.
An endless stretch of trees provided enough shade and shadow to hide a regiment of insurgents brave enough to try an attack. They just had to hope that two platoons’ worth of British Army would make them think twice.
The SA80A2 carried by each lad was the finest infantry rifle known to man. Below the helmets, cam cream was smeared randomly on their faces to break up the shine of human skin so that they could blend into any background. The upper halves of their bodies were wrapped in PLCE webbing that held ammunition, bayonet, food, CamelBaks of water, cooking equipment, communications equipment and other essentials for an introductory twelve-hour patrol.
And under it all were the bits the insurgents would never see but which made the swamp bearable. The British Army’s PCS clothing took even more care of you than your mum had. Every lad on the patrol wore anti-microbial underpants and knee-length socks. The anti-microbial component meant that they could be worn for days on end without turning your private parts and feet into fungal plague zones. Even if they didn’t keep the leeches out.
Up ahead, the three officers – Nine Platoon’s Second Lieutenant Franklin, the new platoon’s Lieutenant Hanson, and the Nigerian liaison, Captain Kokumo – turned a corner and started to clamber up the side of the bank. The rest of the lads swung after them and, two by two, the patrol gratefully left the water behind. Now that they were out of the swamp Sean felt himself relaxing – and immediately made himself pay even more attention to his surroundings. A false sense of security might be the last sense of security you ever had.
The more or less solid ground beneath their feet was not much more than a sandbar, but as they walked, it spread out on either side, becoming firmer as the trees thinned out. What at first looked like an animal trail through the trees was turning into something more. It was still lined with trees, but it was wider and straighter than before. The ground was getting harder. Just as Sean realized that it was a track, kind of, the broken but regular shapes of a ruined village started to emerge from the undergrowth.
Orders rattled back down the line. A wave of snaps and clicks ran through them as selector levers on weapons were flicked from safety to single shot. Sean brought his rifle smoothly up to nestle in his shoulder, caressing the smooth plastic of the pistol grip, the front pad of his index finger resting lightly on the trigger, both eyes wide open with an unblinking stare to take in both the natural view and the enhanced view through the ACOG clamped to the top of the weapon.
The patrol advanced slowly, weapons fanning from side to side.
The village had once been in a clearing. There had been streets of mud-brick houses, single storey, pale yellow walls, with low roofs of corrugated iron. Now the trees had half reclaimed it – which made it twice as dangerous. Two different environments where insurgents could lurk and plot their ambushes. Two different skill sets required for smoking them out.
The platoons broke into their sections, each taking a different part of the deserted village to check out. Wolston’s section got a group of houses on the edge that had been half retaken by the trees. He led Sean, Lance Corporal Marshall, Bright, Mitra, Burnell and West over, communicating with the sign language that they had learned to read fluently. They paired up – Sean and Bright, Marshall and West, Burnell and Mitra – and each couple approached their designated hut, eyes peeled for any movement inside the dark, empty windows, or any other sign that someone had been here recently. Wolston joined up with Mitra and Burnell, and gave the signal. Each pair burst into their hut, rifle butts in their shoulders and fingers on triggers, ready for whatever was waiting.
Sean found himself staring at a tangled mass of leaves and branches advancing through the opposite wall. Branches and roots didn’t have to try very hard to worm their way through the mud bricks, and the sheets of rusty iron on the roof had been casually pushed aside.
The single-room interior didn’t take long to scan. Flaky mud walls, an earth floor, a cracked bathtub, debris blown in from the jungle. Signs to look for were disturbances in the soil or the leaves, or anything that looked like it had been moved or not been there as long as the rest. After a couple of seconds Sean and Bright felt they could relax – a fraction. But they didn’t give the all-clear for their hut until they had checked out the invading jungle at the back for any signs of cut wood, or branches running the wrong way. They had experience of lurking in the undergrowth, bare metres away from an enemy (usually another platoon) that was looking for them, so there was no reason the local branch of Boko Haram shouldn’t have developed the same skill.
But there was no one there.
With two platoons at work it didn’t take long to declare the place clear, section by section. They rendezvoused in the open area at the front of the village. It had stood right at the edge of the mangrove swamp, on the shores of a saltwater lake which Sean’s sense of direction told him must join up with the sea somewhere to the south. The waters of the lake lapped at the foot of a small, sharp bank. The rotting remains of a wooden jetty – not something anyone would want to trust their weight to – stuck out into the water. A couple of long, thin boats had been pulled up and left upside down to protect them from the rain – but not from the termites. The hulls were half eaten. One had a football-sized hole in it; the other just looked like it might collapse if anyone breathed on it. The ground had once been dry, beaten earth, kept free of vegetation by the feet of the people of the village. Now it was knee-high grass.
At the signal from Franklin, everyone sat down on the ground. He gave them all a minute to chug down half a litre of water from their CamelBaks, then gave the nod to Captain Kokumo.
‘So.’ Kokumo stood at ease in front of both platoons. ‘You’re wondering why we’re here? I wanted you to see what our country is up against. What do you think cleared this place out, almost overnight?’
A hand went up from one of the new guys. ‘Boko Haram, sir?’
Kokumo gave a smile to let him down gently, but it didn’t reach his eyes. He left it to the NCOs to indicate by silent glares that Private Pillock ought to pay more attention in briefings.
‘Boko Haram were a powerful military force in the north-east of the country, but this far south they can only send small groups on small operations. A bomb here, an ambush there. Not good, no, but also not enough to clear out an entire community. Anyone else?’
And Sean suddenly realized, to his surprise, that he knew the answer. He had paid attention in the MO’s lectures. He put up his hand.
‘Disease, sir?’
‘Disease,’ Kokumo confirmed with a nod. ‘To be precise, cholera. The people here grew complacent. This is a malarial zone, and they knew how to deal with that. You sleep inside nets soaked in insecticide, you make sure no stagnant water accumulates where the mosquitoes can breed, and you can reduce the risk of malaria right down. But then you forget that there are other diseases out there too. Such as cholera, which comes from drinking water contaminated by human faeces, so really ought to be easy to avoid. The cause of death is severe diarrhoea which can lead to fatal dehydration within hours – and is impossible to treat without the right drugs, because even drinking clean water will make you vomit it straight up again.’
He gestured around them. ‘This used to be a thriving fishing village, home to a couple of hundred people. A comfortable living, all things considered. But they forgot to keep their water clean. They forgot to keep their drinking water and waste water separate. It only takes a small contamination.’
He swept them all with a grave look. ‘The phone lines were down due to a storm. The roads were blocked by fallen trees. There was no way of calling for help apart from going and getting it. It took forty-eight hours after the first recognized case for medics to arrive. By then it was too late.’