'But we've the electronics of a Hind coming in, sir. Isn't that rather special?'
'Wrong. We've not got the electronics of a Hind coming in. MOD'S got it…and that's insufferable.'
He'd soon learn, the innocent little pest, because if he didn't he'd have his arse kicked right down the stairs of Century House and halfway across the bloody Thames.
Take off at noon.
Rostov had made a feeble attempt to delay the mission into area Delta. He had been overruled by the Frontal Aviation commander. His caution had been sneered at by the pilots.
Take off at noon. They would be coming back as Major Medev landed from Kabul. The Frontal Aviation commander had insisted that there was no reason for a delay.
Through Vladdy, the senior pilot, the fliers made it known that they wanted to get into the valley and get some damage done to the bastard caravan sitting on its arse there.
Rostov gave the pre-flight briefing. There had been no apologies for the mess night from the pilots, and no one referred to it.
Met reports were good. High cloud ceiling. Light west south west winds of 10 knots. Minimum of 20 kilometres visibility. Reconnaissance reported the bandit concentration as scattered, but in the open. He gave the map coordinates. Vladdy to lead. Two pairs following at 1000 metre intervals. Very flares to be used at all times.
'What for?' Vladdy.
'Because that is the procedure laid down by Major Medev for flying over area Delta…' the brittle response from Rostov '…and it has not been rescinded.'
'That was when we were up against a missile.'
'You have no confirmation of the kill.'
'You weren't there, Captain Rostov. You don't know what confirmation I had. If you'd been there, you wouldn't be talking about flares. I want to go in fast and low…20, 30 metres. I want to catch them while they're still playing with themselves. I don't want to be stooging and lobbing out flares, telegraphing we're coming…'
'The Antonov will have telegraphed your coming.'
'You want to come with us?' Vladdy smirked at him. He heard the laughter of the pilots around him. He saw Rostov's blush.
'I shall be in Operations, with the Frontal Aviation commander.'
Rostov hated the arrogant bastards. Someone had to be on the ground, in support of them. His head was down as he hurried through the rest of the briefing. He gave the radio frequencies over which the pilots could talk to the Antonov above. He gave the fuel loads and the weapon loads that would be carried. Without looking into their faces he wished the pilots good luck and good hunting. He hated every last one of them.
The Brigadier had waited for an hour outside the office of the Foreign Secretary.
The Foreign Secretary was in conference, had been all morning. There would be a short break in his appointments at eleven o'clock.
The Personal Private Secretary brought the Brigadier a cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits.
There was a rising murmur of voices approaching the door of the Foreign Secretary's secretary's office, the door opening, a stenographer flashing a high skirt at the Ambassador of a Gulf state as she made way for his exit, aides tripping out in his wake. The PPS went forward to catch the ear of his master and gestured back through the open door to the Brigadier. He was waved forward, into the sanctum. He waited for the door to close behind him.
'The news from Pakistan is extraordinarily good, Foreign Secretary.'
'You mean, we've got our man out?'
'No. But on tomorrow morning's Tristar out of Rawalpindi, in the Diplomatic Bag, will be the major parts of the electronics equipment of the Hind Mi-24E gunship helicopter. That is the extraordinarily good news. It's going to require a big bag, a really large one. In addition we have cockpit photographs, notes written by our man, and also the pilot's manuals.'
'What about the man?'
'As to that, Foreign Secretary, there is something I would like to say. My department would wish to put on record our very great appreciation of the freedom you have given us in this exercise. If I might be so bold, very few of your predecessors would have permitted an operation such as this. In the Intelligence field we have scored splendidly.'
'Brigadier, kindly come to heel and tell me about the man.'
'He's delivered, sir. He's broken every rule in the book but he's delivered. You could say he's saved his neck, and that of his controller. It's been a first class coup.'
'Will you give me an answer to a simple question. What has happened to the man?'
'He's a peculiar fellow, that's the least I can say about him. He's taken up residence in a valley in Laghman province. Our last reliable information reported he'd shot down four helicopters.'
'Four?'
'It is apparently his intention to use up all the missiles he travelled with. That'll go against him but, by delivering, Captain Crispin has gone a long way to saving his neck.'
'If I believed that Captain Crispin were more at risk from you than from the Soviet armed forces, I'd…I'd bust you right out of the army. No, by God, I wouldn't. I'd bust you to Lance Corporal and then I'd stamp on you, fingers, throat and all.'
The Brigadier smiled a cold little smile, 'It was fortunate that on this one occasion your fantasies and our requirements were able to coincide.'
'You don't give a damn about our man.' The Foreign Secretary's voice rose to an angry snarl. 'You don't give a damn whether he comes out or not.'
'Quite wrong, Foreign Secretary. If he doesn't come out I care hugely. I care that if he doesn't come out, he's dead and not captured. If you can get these wild notions of scooping the pot from the Americans out of your head, you should also care he's not captured. If he's captured, it's not just his neck on the block, I fancy it's yours as well.'
'Get out, please. Get out this instant.'
'Good day, Foreign Secretary.'
The Brigadier walked smartly from the room.
Medev had tried to reach the Jalalabad base again by telephone, but had been unsuccessful.
He succumbed to more coffee and some sandwiches of lettuce and tomato, and to conversation with a Mechanised Infantry major. Worse than the coffee and the sandwich was the tedium of the major's war stories from Mazar-i-Sharif. The coffee he could take, and the sandwiches when he poured salt into them, but the war stories of another of the converts to ultimate victory wounded him.
'I tell you, Major Medev — that's your name, yes? — we have these shit-pushers on the run. If we hold the pressure on them for this winter, then it's my belief they'll start to disintegrate. They're just bandits you know, extortionists. From what I've seen we've brought great benefits to this country through Soviet generosity. We've brought schools, roads, education and literacy, and now I think we have a military stability that we can build on to go forward for the final elimination of these gangs…'
'Have you seen action here?'
'Not actual action. At Mazar-i-Sharif I was with Sixteen Motor Division headquarters. I expect I'll see action when I'm at Jalalabad. I often say that Afghanistan is an incredible opportunity for the younger Soviet officer to learn the realities of war, a very useful training ground. But you would know that better than I, Major Medev. You must have learned considerably about combat flying in the months you've served here. You'll be richer…'
'We have all learned something.'
Medev stood up. He dropped his coffee beaker into a rubbish bin and walked away.
He looked at the wall clock. He lit another cigarette. He wanted only to be back in Jalalabad. He looked back at the major of Mechanised Infantry. Go walk in area Delta, you bastard, and you'll find out everything you ever wanted to know.
Barney at peace. Barney waiting and staring down to the southern bend of the valley.