No point in signing up for the Regiment if you are going to complain about getting hurt, Porter told himself as he climbed the stairs back towards the deck. It had been that tosser Collinson’s fault for sending him up to the doorway, but those were the breaks. In combat, stuff happened. You just had to live with it.
He looked out at the sea. Taking out a packet of Rothmans, he cupped his hands against the wind, and lit a cigarette. He’d promised Diana he’d give up when she got pregnant, and had managed not to smoke at all on his last leave, but he knew the nicotine would help to dull the pain that would inevitably come raging back once the anaesthetic wore off.
Lucky I don’t hold the fag with my left hand, he grinned to himself as he chucked the ash into the sea swelling up around the side of the ship. With luck, it shouldn’t hurt his career too much. There were plenty of guys in the Regiment who’d lost fingers, but if they could still hold a gun straight, it didn’t count against them. So long as it didn’t disable you, a wound could even help you get ahead: it showed you could take the punishment.
He heard the chopper first, its engine growling out over the sea, then saw its lights. It was flying low, skimming over the waves, before gaining altitude as it came in for a landing on the Dorset’s deck. Porter glanced at his watch. It was now just after ten at night. They’d set off two hours ago for the ten-minute flight. They had a maximum half-hour window to complete the mission. Porter had been on Lebanese soil for only twenty minutes. They should have been back an hour ago at least. What the hell kept them?
Turning round, he watched the Puma hover for a fraction of a second above the deck before the pilot brought it in to land and killed the engine. As the blades stopped turning, you could hear just the lapping of the ocean against the Dorset’s hull, and the humming of her propellers beneath the waves. Six sailors were already running towards the Puma, securing the machine to the deck, and flinging open the hatch.
Porter took a deep drag on the cigarette, letting the nicotine mix with the anaesthetic to soothe his nerves. He watched as the first man stepped out of the chopper. Collinson. The little prat, thought Porter. Didn’t fire a shot throughout the whole mission.
Collinson was reaching inside the chopper. ‘Stretchers,’ he shouted to the waiting sailors.
‘Shit,’ said Porter, his voice no more than a whisper quickly stifled by the sea breeze. I hope to hell we didn’t take any more casualties.
Two sailors had already disappeared inside the chopper carrying a stretcher, then two more, then two more. There was a wait of a few seconds. Porter took a step forward, taking a final hit on his cigarette. A stretcher was emerging, carried flat out of the helicopter.
With a white sheet covering it.
‘Fuck, no,’ Porter muttered.
He could feel the pain stabbing up his left arm.
Another stretcher.
And another white sheet.
Porter could feel his heart thumping. He took another step forward, then stopped. He couldn’t bear to go any closer.
One final stretcher emerged from the Puma.
And it too had a white sheet covering it.
Porter wiped away the bead of cold sweat that had formed on his brow.
All three of them, he thought to himself. Steve, Mike and Keith. Dead.
How the fuck did that happen?
‘Porter.’
The voice was sharp, insistent.
Porter turned round. A young sailor was looking straight at him.
‘You’re needed in the debrief room,’ he snapped. ‘Now.’
With his pulse still racing, Porter began to walk. He knew exactly where to go: the same room where they had been briefed on the mission just a few hours ago. He was walking slowly, gripping on to the rails of the metal staircase. When he left them, Steve said he had the situation under control. He told him they just needed to secure the building, then evacuate. Now the three of them were dead. And I wasn’t there to help them.
He pushed open the door to the debrief room. Pemberton was already there and so was Collinson, flanked by a pair of officers. Nobody was smiling. Pemberton looked at him coldly. ‘Come in, Porter,’ he said slowly. ‘Glad to see somebody survived the bloody mission.’
One chair had been positioned directly opposite the main desk. ‘Take a seat, Porter,’ said Pemberton.
‘I prefer to stand.’
‘I said, take a seat,’ he repeated icily. ‘You’re injured, you need to rest.’
Porter pulled out the chair. He didn’t recognise the two other officers, but he could see that one of them was taking notes. ‘What happened, sir?’ he said. ‘To the other blokes, I mean.’
Pemberton rested against the edge of the desk but didn’t sit down. ‘I’ll let Collinson tell you,’ he said.
Glancing up, he could see Perry taking a step forward. He was standing just three feet from where Porter was sitting and you could still smell the gunpowder on his uniform. There was a tear on his jacket, and a plaster covering a cut on his face. ‘It was like this,’ he began. ‘We evacuated you as well as the hostage. Steve wanted to secure the building. It was a sound enough plan. Steve’s a good man. We laid down some fire, enough to keep the Hezbollah guys at bay. It shouldn’t have taken more than a few minutes. We were getting ready to clear out when the little Arab fucker you left unconsciousness suddenly came round. He’d crawled across the floor, and picked up one of the AK-47s his mates had left on the floor.’ He paused, glancing towards Pemberton before continuing. ‘Then he sprayed the place with bullets. Took Steve and Keith down instantly. Poor blokes didn’t have a chance. Mike managed to start returning fire, and might have winged the kid, but by then he was running backwards out into the alley. He managed to hit Mike just as he was disappearing from view. He was still alive for the next twenty minutes or so but he was losing a lot of blood, and there wasn’t anything I could do to help him. I knew the chopper would be waiting for us, so I laid down as much fire as I could, and started to make my way upstairs. I was lucky. I reckon the kid had already legged it. I told the pilot to stay put, then I went back to get our boys.’
‘I left him out cold,’ snapped Porter.
‘Then I suppose your punch isn’t hard enough,’ said Collinson. He paused, wiping away some greasy sweat from his forehead. ‘There were two firefights as I went back to collect the bodies. A couple of snipers were trying to get me. I think I may have killed one of them, I’m not sure. Took three runs to get our men, and I don’t mind telling you it was a bit hairy. Still, at least we got out. And, after all, the hostage was rescued.’
Porter’s eyes remained rooted to the floor. If he could have drilled a hole in the bottom of the boat, he would have gladly sunk himself to the bottom of the ocean. Steve, Mike and Keith. Three of the best mates I ever worked with. All dead. And all because I didn’t finish off that little Arab bastard when I had the chance.
‘So, as Perry says, mission accomplished,’ said Pemberton. ‘The hostage is back, and unharmed. But three of our men died, and the Regiment doesn’t take casualties lightly. This is our worst day since the Falklands. So, the question is this, Porter. Why didn’t you kill the boy?’
Porter’s eyes were still rooted to the floor. He couldn’t move them. He wasn’t sure they would ever move again. ‘I … I …’
He could start the sentence. But how the hell could he finish it?
‘Well, man?’ snapped Pemberton. ‘What’s the bloody answer?’
He was just a kid, thought Porter. He was begging me. A child …
‘Sod it, can’t you even speak?’
‘We’re not butchers,’ said Porter suddenly. ‘I left him unconsciousness. There was no way he should have come round.’