Hard going and difficult ground, and the kids were behind them and he heard the boy’s voice and the girl’s laughter. They were on open ground and it was hard for him with his arms pinioned. He thought he left behind him an old world: hatred and contempt would fall on him. He slipped, fell, and was tugged up without ceremony. He had not meant to gain sympathy, but had earned none. He regained his balance, was shoved forward. He did not know why they were not tracked, and why the helicopters were not up, nor the drones, did not know why he was not hunted… They approached a dead tree, wide branches that were grotesque and ill-shaped, where crows perched, gazing down on them – and the girl laughed again, like it was a school jaunt.
Delta Alpha Sierra, the seventeenth hour
They walked in darkness. Gaz had draped her arm over his shoulder and she clung to his Bergen. The village was far behind them. The cloud had broken. Stars shone, and a miserable moon threw slight light. It was a skill Gaz had, to navigate across open and featureless ground.
Around them were the goats from her herd and her dogs. Gaz had offered her the biscuits from the bottom of his Bergen but she had refused. The dogs had wolfed them down. There were enough small indents in the ground for rainwater to have gathered and the animals – both the goats and the dogs – could drink. He did not talk because he had no idea what would have been appropriate to say. She had been gang raped and the price she’d paid was his life.
They were briefed on Russian military tactics, and command structures in Syria’s theatre, and were told about living conditions for their troops, had a fair impression of life for their air force personnel and the special forces units. None of their own intelligence people had turned up at the Forward Operating Base with thumbnail sketches of existence inside a camp of IRGC militia, how it would be to board and lodge with the Iranians… and after any fire-fight the chance was that the Russians would hightail it to a place of their own and do their report.
… and he’d be telling his story to their intelligence people and main force unit officers. ‘We got ourselves involved in a confused small-arms contact. There was an attack on our garrison camp from terrorists; they were beaten off. This morning the local IRGC organised a counter-strike at company level. I did not feel it necessary to involve myself in the operation and they seemed competent in what they intended. The night attack came from a terrorist-controlled village, Deir al-Siyarqi, just off the main highway crossing our sector. They met resistance there, a full-scale fire-fight developed. Passions ran high and there may have been civilian casualties when the village was finally taken. I cannot rule out the possibility of reprisals against non-combatants, but I would stress the Iranians believed the community to be a nest of anti-government dissent. I and my escort stayed back because there was no reason for us to be directly involved. It took longer to complete than expected because, in very poor weather conditions, there was continuing sniper fire. When the enemy combatants had been neutralised, the fatalities among the villagers were given a decent burial by the Iranians. I saw little of what happened in the village when it was taken. There may have been excesses but I did not witness them. In my opinion, the Iranian allies acted correctly. Were there captives who our interrogators should get a run with? Unfortunately that is not possible. There were no captives. Were there terrorists who escaped from the village before it fell, subsequent witnesses? I think not. My conclusion – the highway is safer for travel by our forces now that this village has been rendered harmless.’ An easy story to tell. The colleagues, professional soldiers, who had extracted it might have noticed cheeks drained of colour, a stammer, or obviously rehearsed sentences, might have seen a tremor in the officer’s hands. He would not have been challenged, contradicted. An old adage of military life: only the losers get hauled in for crimes in the field. He could imagine that but did not know what he should say to her.
She stopped. The goats’ cries had reached a crescendo.
He saw her sense of duty. She squatted. The animals pressed close to her, could no longer be ignored. She reached out, took the teats on the udders of the goats, and did the milking movement she would have been familiar with. Worked a line as milk was jetted out and splashed on to the dirt below. Went on, looked after them, took time for it. He did not interrupt her, stayed close to her until she was finished, had a hand ready in case she toppled. He tried once to put an arm around her shoulder as she relieved the goats, give her comfort, but she flinched and then shook it away. At the end she turned, looked up, and a gleam of the moon’s light settled on her face.
She said, “I had to survive because there must be a witness who lives.”
They moved off again in the dark and the goats were quieter and the dogs shepherded them. He sent the text, gave an estimate of his arrival.
Gaz’s mind contorted with images of the Russian officer, of his face, his actions, of his guilt. He did not know what to say but made his pledge silently, and saw the officer and did not dare to lose sight of him. Who would listen? Likely no one, and likely no one would care. He draped her arm across his shoulder and her hand gripped the Bergen and they walked. Who would ever give him a chance to be that witness? No one would.
“You have the better angle on him,” Boris said.
“I think I might have,” Mikki said.
They were both aiming. Boris was on one knee and had a low granite slab to rest his elbows on. Mikki was on the ground and had found heather and low scrub and was comfortable. At the range they had chosen, some 175 metres – as veterans of combat – both would say, in estimating range and the deflection that wind might make to the passage in the air of a bullet, even with assault rifles, it was a simple shot.
Mikki said, “At the next stride he takes.”
Boris said, “Best for you, better than me – go, drop him.”
They had open sights on their rifles. Those issued to the FSB, through the armoury on Prospekt, did not have telescopic attachments as the front line infantry would have had. They fired on the rare enough occasions that the weapons were issued, over open sights. Mikki had the V and the needle together and calculated the distance and the lever at the positioning for the range; in the distance beyond the sights was the blurred shape of the man’s body. The target was to the left of the officer and a half pace behind. Easy for them both, at that distance, to note that the officer had his wrists tied with a supermarket plastic bag, then he rocked and was unstable. They both knew that reward and praise would follow the successful rescue of the major, that rewards and praise would come, and they would be paid off and generously. Mikki had the necessary elevation. Would have fired, could have, but the officer slipped sideways, only a quarter of a metre, but the target was immediately reduced. The kids – scum brats, criminals, should have been beaten to pulp – trailed by at least fifty metres, outside the loop of his vision. Did not matter, would be dealt with in the aftermath. He had slowed his breathing, readied himself.
“Fuck, but the next time.”
“Do it, do him the next time – heh, if you fucking miss…”