The Operative (8 page)

Jack gave up on the charge and with no time to replace it he cursed loudly at his bad luck or ineptitude. Whichever, it was his
fault. There was nothing more for it than to throw the junction switch manually. The only good news was that at least the job would get done since he’d had niggling doubts about the charge actually achieving the desired effect in the first place.

He dropped to the ground as the train closed on him and glanced up at the cab as it went past to see the engineer in the window looking down at him. As the back of the locomotive shot by he saw men climbing onto its roof. A second later the back of the carriage passed and he jumped to his feet, grabbed the heavy track-change lever and heaved on it. But the rusty joint was tight and barely moved.

Forouf ’s carriage was seconds away.

Jack slammed a foot against a sleeper and with a supreme effort, his shoulder behind it, the lever started to move.

Suddenly, bullets peppered the ground around him, zinging off the rails and slamming into the wooden sleepers. Jack glanced up in mid-effort to see the fire coming from the rear of the carriage attached to the locomotive. His instincts were screaming at him to take cover but Forouf’s carriage was almost upon him and, ignoring the shots that were fortunately poorly aimed, he invoked every ounce of his strength. An explosion suddenly destroyed the back of the locomotive, killing the men who were firing at him and Jack knew that Stratton had seen the shooting. He yelled out loud and as his strength peaked the lever gave in and the ramrod shunted the internal rack across, an instant before the front wheels of the carriage touched it.

Jack hit the ground and rolled away as the carriage flew past but he was not out of danger yet. Forouf had seen him from the window and had grabbed a weapon from one of his men, hurried to the rear of the carriage and opened fire while his men shot from the windows.

Jack was exposed where he lay and, since the carriage was slowing down, he decided that a moving target was better than
one lying still and leaped to his feet, pulled the bike up, started it and sped away. Gunfire raked the ground in front of and behind him and he opened the throttle while keeping his head low.

Stratton watched his friend through his binoculars, clenching his teeth, willing him on. Then he grabbed the handset. ‘Mike four zero, go, go, go!’ he shouted.

Two Chinook helicopters carrying the reaction teams had been hovering on standby just above the ground a mile away and immediately raised their tails as the pilots applied full power, their twin rotors grabbing the air and pulling the heavy beasts forward. Within seconds they were screaming at full speed feet above the ground towards the lone carriage trundling across their front.

Stratton stepped from the hide and stood on the mound, his attention focused on Jack as he watched him speed across the desert leaving a broad trail of dust in his wake. ‘Come on, old buddy, keep it going,’ he muttered.

The choppers covered the ground in half a minute and a short distance from the carriage both of them rose up sharply and banked in opposite directions to split their attack formation. The lead chopper manoeuv red sharply in front of the carriage while the door gunner, seated behind a .50 calibre heavy belt-fed machine gun, let rip, sending a hail of fire across its front and down the sides, the intention being to frighten the occupants into ceasing fire. The second chopper came in low behind the carriage, fired a burst across the rear to scare the men with weapons in the wrecked doorway, then turned up the side, crossed beneath the other Chinook, moved ahead several hundred metres and reared up as it made ready to hover, kicking up dust that practically hid it from view. Before the rear wheels touched down, men toting M4 assault rifles and wearing desert combats, loaded webbing, and goggles against the dust, streamed down the rear ramp and split into groups. One of the teams, carrying a long roll of heavy
wire mesh, ran to the track, placed it across the rails to cover the width, ran it out for twenty metres and then hurried away to take up firing positions as the carriage drew closer.

Fifty yards from the mesh another team fired grenades in through the carriage’s windows as it rolled past and seconds later it was filled with a dense white smoke. The front wheels rolled over the mesh, which wrapped around and locked them.

The second Chinook landed a team at the first crash site to secure it in case anyone had survived. Then it went in pursuit of the locomotive that was already slowing down, the engineer frantically waving a stained white rag out of the window.

As Forouf ’s carriage came to a halt the men inside practically fell out of its front and rear, coughing and spluttering, eyes streaming and mucus pouring from their noses. Forouf was among them as they were immediately leaped upon, dragged to the ground, hooded and cuffed. Hammad was treated with the same courtesy to avoid him incurring any suspicion and though he was relieved that it was over and that he had lived through it he vowed never to make such a deal again, certain that his survival had been purely by chance.

Stratton jumped off the mound and exhaled with relief as Jack headed towards him.

Jack was elated, not only with the success of the operation but with the rush of having survived the gunfire. He raised a hand and waved, then, deciding to celebrate with a bit of showmanship, climbed up onto the bike’s seat and stuck a leg in the air, balancing the machine carefully over the rugged terrain. Feeling even more confident, he took a hand off the handlebar and raised that too.

The front wheel started to wobble and Stratton shook his head, fully expecting his friend to take a tumble any second.

Jack didn’t see the small anti-personnel mine the size of a cigarette packet half buried in the sand. It had been there for a
decade and a half, and had that been all he might well have survived the blast of just a few ounces of explosive hitting the bike’s wheel. But it was a not uncommon trick played by many armies to place an anti-personnel mine directly on top of a vehicle or anti-tank mine, which was the case on this occasion.

The explosion threw Jack high into the air, the bike spinning in pieces beside him. Stratton broke into a run before Jack hit the ground, ripping the
shamagh
from his head and screaming Jack’s name as he sprinted as fast as he could, uncaring that he could meet a similar fate.

He slid to a halt on his knees beside Jack’s horrend ously mutilated body, aware that if by some miracle Jack was still alive he would not live long, not out here, miles from a hospital. There was a medic pack back at the hide but it would be of pitiful use against these injuries. He put a hand to Jack’s throat, searching for a pulse, but there was none.

Stratton remained motionless beside his friend, barely aware of the dune buggy tearing across the desert towards him, until something in his subconscious let out a warning cry.

He jumped to his feet, took out his pistol and fired it towards the buggy, the bullets striking the ground either side of it.

The buggy came to a halt and Seaton climbed out, leaving Smiv at the wheel.

‘Mines,’ Stratton shouted.

Seaton instantly realised what had happened. He glanced around the immediate area, then back at Stratton.

Stratton knelt again beside his friend and it was only then that he noticed the little wooden camel on the ground next to Jack. He picked it up and held it as memories of their times together swept through his head. Then, suddenly, he could see Sally’s face as she heard the news. And then he thought of poor Josh.

Stratton heard his name being called and looked around at Smiv who was standing in the vehicle and shouting as loud as he could.

‘Do you want a chopper?’ Smiv repeated.

Stratton understood what he meant. The chopper could hover feet off the ground while Stratton lifted Jack inside. But there was no need for that now. He would carry his friend back to the hide, retracing his footsteps, and even though there were still dangers in doing that he did not give a damn. He wasn’t about to leave Jack out in this shit-hole for the hours that it would take to clear a route wide enough for a vehicle to get to them.

He signalled a negative response that relayed the worst. Seaton watched as Stratton crouched down, picked up Jack’s body, and walked away.

Sally sat alone in her kitchen at the dining table, wearing a black dress and staring through unfocused eyes at a pile of sympathy cards and letters, most of them from members of Special Forces units around the world.

She was numb, and unhappier than at any time in her life. Her world had been thrown on its ear and it was only in the last couple of hours, since Jack’s ashes had been poured onto the gently lapping waters of Poole Harbour from a jetty on the Hard, the landing point used by the SBS down the road from their headquarters, that she had begun to think beyond this day. She was surprised by how clearly she could suddenly see the way ahead once she turned her attention to it and how obvious it was what she needed to do. She wondered if the clarity was some kind of illusion but her plan, which was arguably extreme, was in character and she would stick with it unless a better one presented itself.

The doorbell rang but Sally didn’t move other than to blink her red-rimmed eyes. She didn’t want to speak to anyone else that day. The funeral had been bad enough. It was the small talk that was so frustrating. She’d hated the colonel’s eulogy, going on about how great Jack was. She knew that better than anyone but all it did for her was to prolong the pain. There was nothing more to say as far as she was concerned. Jack was dead, gone from her life for ever and her son was fatherless. Those were the cold facts and although
she would miss him terribly nothing would bring him back.

Josh had been quiet during the ceremony but otherwise normal until he saw Smudge with tears rolling down his face. Then he started to cry and so did she. It was horrible and she couldn’t wait to get home and be alone.

The doorbell went again. Sally got up and walked to the window but the visitor was out of sight in the small alcove. She wondered how long they would keep pushing the bell before they got the hint and went away. Then, as if he had heard her thoughts, Stratton stepped backwards into view and looked at her. She would never have been so rude as to wave anyone away once they had made eye contact but Stratton was probably the only person she would genuinely welcome inside. He was different and practically family, away all the time, it seemed, but when he was home he always came to visit and always had a gift for Josh who loved him.

She went into the hall and opened the door. Stratton stood looking at her, wearing a dark suit and looking unusually tidy.

‘Why aren’t you at the mess with everyone else?’ she asked, forcing a smile.

‘I was on my way … Can I come in? I won’t stay long.’

Sally stood back to let him in.

Despite their close relationship he felt awkward as she closed the door behind him. It was a different world inside the house now and Sally was a different person now that Jack was gone. As she stared at him it was as if his presence had finally broken the dam she had built in her heart. Her expression changed suddenly as the tears began to well up in her eyes. She fell into his arms and sobbed like a child.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’ve been trying to brave it out all week but I can’t any more.’

‘It’s okay,’ Stratton said, feeling uncomfortable with the closeness. It was this kind of emotional contact that he had difficulty
with. Whenever he indulged it felt insincere though it was not. It was the physical display that he had trouble with. That had always been the main problem behind his unsuccessful relationships with women. Sharing this moment with Sally should have been different, it should have been natural despite the circumstances. But it was not.

She pulled away as if sensing his discomfort. ‘Right. No more tears,’ she said, wiping her eyes and heading back into the kitchen. ‘I’ll put the kettle on.’

Stratton followed, wanting to say something to comfort her, but he couldn’t think of anything intelligent. Not that it would have made much difference. Sally was a tough and stubborn woman and would do things her own way, even more so now that she was without Jack’s soothing common sense.

Stratton sat on one of the stools at the island breakfast bar and watched her make the tea. His gaze wandered around the room, to the cards on the table and the toy basket in a corner. ‘Where’s Josh?’ he asked.

‘Downstairs, watching TV, but he’s not really watching it. Poor lad. I don’t think it’s truly sunk home yet that his dad’s never coming back.’

‘Maybe he’s tougher than you think.’

Sally hoped that Stratton was wrong, though she feared other -wise. The truth was she didn’t want Josh to be that strong, like his father, or worse, void of emotion like his godfather. She didn’t want him to become a soldier like them. It suddenly dawned on her that her plan was based on that very fear. She didn’t want Josh to grow up around soldiers any more or be influenced by them.

‘We’re leaving Poole,’ she said matter-of-factly, pouring the milk into the cups.

Stratton detected something in her tone that suggested there was more to the statement. ‘Going up north?’ he asked.

‘No. Well, for as long as it takes to sort out things with my mum and dad. Then we’re leaving the country.’

Stratton masked his surprise.

‘We’re going to the States,’ she went on. ‘I’ve got a cousin in California. They’re always asking us over.’