'Good,' said Barry. 'Now do it again and hold the tray on one hand.'

f.u.c.k, what was this? She was angling for a job as a waitress, not a circus performer. Once again, she circled the kitchen, only this time one of the cooks stepped back suddenly from a stove and Jenna, dodging her, managed to tip over two of the gla.s.ses. The tray was awash with water.

'You can't serve the rest of the drinks now. The gla.s.ses are wet and they'll drip on customers.'

'I know, sorry.'

'You'll probably find it easier in flat shoes, too,' said Barry.

'So have I still got the job?'

Barry nodded. 'Although we may just ask you to serve food. Canapes don't tip over so easily. Maybe drinks next time round.'

Four hours later, Jenna arrived back at the industrial estate as instructed by Barry. Outside the business were several vans, some designed to carry people, some to carry trays of goodies. A stream of workers were lugging boxes of gla.s.ses, cases of wine and platters of food to and fro.

Jenna spotted Barry. 'What do you want me to do?' she asked.

'Keep out of the way at the moment. We'll give you some proper training tomorrow. Tonight just take in the food that Karen tells you to.'

'Karen?'

'I'll introduce you at the venue. Now, if you'll excuse me...' and with that Barry disappeared back into the building.

Feeling like a spare part, Jenna went and sat in one of the minibuses. It wasn't her fault she couldn't help; she hoped the other wait staff understood why she wasn't.

A few minutes later the vans were loaded and ready for the off.

A severe woman climbed into the driver's seat next to Jenna. She swivelled around in her seat.

'You must be the new girl.' Jenna nodded. 'I'm Karen. I'll show you the ropes tonight. I expect you to listen, ask if you don't understand what I say and do as you're told.'

'OK,' said Jenna. And nice to meet you too. But she told herself she didn't have to like these people in order to earn money; all she had to do was work for them.

Ten minutes later, they drew up at the football club on the edge of town. It was a new building which proclaimed in a large banner across the front that it had been funded by the National Lottery. Jenna wished they spent less money on stuff like this and more on the prizes so the punters had a bigger chance she felt her finances were just as good a cause as a poxy game of football.

After half an hour of toing and froing, lugging, carrying, running back and forth, she was knackered and her feet ached.

'Chop, chop,' shouted Karen, glaring at her, as Jenna took a breather.

'f.u.c.k off,' muttered Jenna under her breath, grabbing yet another box of gla.s.ses to put out on the snowy cloths on the tables ranged along one side of the big club room. By the time the father of the affianced arrived, with his wife and daughter, the room was just about ready.

Jenna stood at the side of the room, with a plate of mini Scotch eggs made from quails' eggs, while he inspected the arrangements. A tweak here, a taste of the canapes there and then he nodded in approbation.

'He must be worth a bit,' whispered Jenna to another waitress called Helen.

'Ex-mayor,' confided Helen. 'His daughter's marrying a soldier.'

'Stupid girl,' said Jenna.

'I think it's romantic.'

'It isn't. Trust me, it's a s.h.i.t life.'

Other guests began to arrive and Helen and Jenna moved off to circulate with their trays of food. As they moved through the party, the guests swooped on their trays like seagulls, and Helen and Jenna almost spent more time going back and forth from the kitchens to get new supplies than they did handing the food out.

'Jeez, I've walked miles,' said Jenna to Helen, as they picked up yet more nibbles. She'd only been working for around an hour, but she hadn't imagined it would be as knackering as this which came as a surprise, considering that being a hairdresser had involved being on her feet all day. But mostly standing still, which presumably made all the difference.

By the time the party was drawing to a close, Jenna's feet were caning. She felt as if she had broken gla.s.s lining her shoes, not kidskin, and that someone was trying to saw off her little toes with rusty wire. She tried really hard to keep a smile on her face and to walk normally, but in reality it was almost impossible not to hobble or keep wincing.

'It's Jenna, isn't it?' said a man in a sharp suit, taking a mushroom vol-au-vent off her platter.

She stopped dead. 'Might be.'

'Thought I recognised you. I've seen you in the Spar, haven't I?'

Jenna nodded. But it still didn't explain how he knew her name. Her face must have reflected this.

'My wife.' He stopped and corrected himself. 'My ex-wife used to go to Zo's.'

'Oh. Did I do her hair?'

'She was Trudy Armstrong and yes, you did. And I'm Dan. Dan Armstrong.'

'Nice to meet you, Dan.' But 'ex-wife'. That was interesting. She wondered why Trudy, whom she remembered vaguely, had dumped such a hot guy? And didn't she remember Trudy had wanted her hair done specially for a dinner in the sergeants' mess. Was Dan a sergeant? If so, he got paid a pretty decent wedge. Even more interesting.

'So, are you a soldier?'

Dan nodded. 'REME.'

'What's that then?'

'Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers. We fix stuff. Although other people say REME stands for Reck Everything Mechanical Everytime.'

Jenna laughed. 'I bet you don't.'

'We try not to.' Dan gave her a slow smile before he added, 'What are you doing after this shindig?'

Jenna grimaced. 'Getting these shoes off.'

'How about slipping them off in a bar somewhere?'

Jenna considered the offer. It was only a drink. Didn't she deserve the chance to go out occasionally? Lee need never know and anyway, Dan seemed pleasant. And if he was a sergeant, he could afford to take her somewhere nice. 'Cool. I've got to go back to the company offices to get my pay and pick up my car, though.'

'OK,' said Dan. 'How about we meet in the Six Bells, in an hour? We're not likely to run into any squaddies there. Nothing against soldiers, but they're a bit rough for my taste.' He gave her a smile.

Did he know she was married? she wondered. Was that why he didn't want them to be seen together by guys from the camp? Or was it really that he didn't like soldiers? Either way, so what? It was only a drink, she repeated to herself. She made up her mind. 'Yeah, great.' And the Six Bells sw.a.n.ky. Her hunch about his pay was right. 'Now I'd better get on, or the boss'll chew me out. Laters.' As she circulated around the few remaining guests with the last of the party food, her feet suddenly didn't seem to hurt so much.

27.

The hot sun was low and the sky was turning a coppery orange as the ten-man patrol headed back to base. They were tired, the heat had been relentless how could it have been so Baltic just a couple of weeks ago and now it was baking? and their supplies of water were almost exhausted. It wasn't an issue: in less than an hour they should be back in the safety of the compound, tucking into their evening meal and with as much water as they could drink, but until then they were all aware that maybe it would be wise not to be too profligate with what water they did have in their Bergens. Lee tabbed along behind Sergeant Adams and Johnny, keeping his mind on the job as much as he could. Even so, every now and again he caught himself drifting into thinking about his bank account. Could he, he wondered, make it so that Jenna couldn't access it? But if he did, how would she pay the bills? Was he being unfair? After all, he was going to qualify for an end of tour bonus and that would pay off the debts. He'd planned on buying a nice Audi, but that could wait. Except why should it? He'd earned it...

Stop it, he told himself.

Up ahead, Johnny's mine detector let out the occasional squeak or squeal, as it pa.s.sed over odd bits of rubbish on the dusty track that led towards the last village before the Neb Ca.n.a.l: cans, horseshoe nails, spent cartridge cases from other encounters, detritus you'd never normally notice, but you did now the Vallon picked it out. The pale surface was in contrast to the fields on either side, which now had thigh-high plants growing in them. Opium poppies. In another few weeks they'd be flowering, and by the time that happened it would be almost time for 2 Herts and the rest of the soldiers on this phase of Operation Herrick to leave and the new batch of troops to take their place.

Lee watched the tall green foliage swaying. It all looked quite peaceful: the neat fields with crops, the irrigation ca.n.a.ls flanked by reeds and trees, with a few goats tethered to stakes in the ground, nibbling on the foliage. It was hard to believe how blood-soaked the soil of this country was. Lee watched the foliage move again. It was then he realised there hadn't been a breath of wind all day. It wasn't the breeze moving the plants...

The reality of what he'd spotted jolted him into action. Someone was lying in wait in the plants. Ambush!

'Take cover,' he yelled, as he threw himself to the ground.

As his comrades followed his lead, there was the most almighty explosion. Lee, flat on the ground, felt the shock wave ripple the length of his body like a wave under a lilo. A chemical, just-lit-sparkler smell wafted past as dust, stones and other s.h.i.t pattered down on his body armour and his helmet. The shock of the explosion at such close proximity left him feeling unbelievably shaky and his ears were ringing so much that the sound of someone shouting was m.u.f.fled.

'Man down, man down!' he managed to discern. He raised his head. Sergeant Adams was already up and running forward. s.h.i.t, it was Johnny. Despite feeling as though his legs weren't properly under control, Lee also raced forward. As he ran, he could see that Johnny's left leg was horribly shortened. Fear and panic nearly took control before training began to kick in.

'Send a nine-liner,' he yelled at the radio operator. 'We need a MERT.'

'Get Ryan up here,' screamed Adams. Ryan was the patrol medic, the guy with the specialist training and kit.

Lee threw his Bergen off his back and crouched behind it. He was sure the IED had been detonated from the poppy field. The terrorist was probably still in there, lying low or leopard-crawling his way to safety. In your dreams, you f.u.c.ker, thought Lee. His fear was now morphing into anger white-hot rage that his mate, his best buddy, had been catastrophically injured.

His hunch was vindicated when a crackle of automatic fire spat through the air. Once again the soldiers dropped to the ground. Lee, emboldened by the slight protection his Bergen afforded, watched to see where the shots had come from. He had a rough idea anyway; he knew where he'd seen the poppies moving. He could get this b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He was going to get this b.a.s.t.a.r.d. If it were the last thing he did, he owed that much to Johnny.

And over his anger and his desire for revenge he felt guilt. Maybe, if he'd been just a bit more on the ball, if he hadn't been thinking about b.l.o.o.d.y Jenna and his finances, he'd have made the connection about the movement in the field before Johnny had got too near the bomb. f.u.c.k!

Lee opened fire on the area of the poppy field he was sure would hold the terrorist. But then he could hear the bullets zinging in from another direction. s.h.i.t, the ambush was even better organised than he'd first thought.

'Nine o'clock,' he yelled, hoping his voice would be heard over the noise and confusion of the firefight.

Other members of the patrol joined Lee, also sheltering behind their own Bergens, and followed Lee's direction of fire. It was difficult to tell if they were having any success as bullets, lit by red tracer, poured back and forth. Had they hit any of the gunmen?

'Get air support,' screamed the sergeant, from where he was helping Ryan tend Johnny. The radio operator jabbered instructions into his set.

The firing from the centre of the field seemed to have died down.

'I'm moving in,' said Lee. 'Give me covering fire.'

His comrades began to let rip with their SA80s, the bullets skimming over Lee's head as he ran, half crouched, into the lush green crop. He felt a tug at his jacket. He dropped to his knees, hiding in the plants. He had a hole in his sleeve. s.h.i.t, that was close. He hoped to f.u.c.k it was the enemy, not his own side. He didn't want to think that one of his colleagues couldn't aim a gun properly. Not a good thought.

He popped up, meerkat-like, to get a quick bearing. Twenty yards away, the poppies were swaying again. He brought up his rifle and pumped a magazine's worth into the area. Ducking down he rapidly unclipped the spent container, reached into his belt kit, and replaced it. It only took seconds. Then he ran forward a second time. Slumped in the plants was the body of a young lad. He could only have been about fifteen. Lee felt for a pulse but he could tell the boy was dead, and he didn't care. By the boy was the switch that had detonated the IED the one that had injured, maybe killed, Johnny.

'Live by the sword,' said Lee to his dead opponent, 'and you're going to get f.u.c.ked.'

Without thinking, he stood up to make his way back to the rest of the patrol and as he did so pain exploded. He collapsed while the sky darkened and all he could hear, before he pa.s.sed out, was the sound of someone screaming himself.

The nine-liner came into the crew room and instantly papers were thrown on the floor, books dropped, as the immediate readiness crew exchanged board games and reading materials for emergency medical equipment, and headed for the helipad. s.h.i.t, Chrissie thought, as she grabbed a bag of medical equipment, her body armour and her helmet and raced from the air-conditioned cool of the crew room into the oven-hot heat outside, another poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d maimed.

Like everyone, she watched the newscasts beamed to them by the BFBS, and was bemused by how little from Afghanistan ever made it onto the British news. Deaths did, sometimes repatriations if it was a slow news day, but injuries? Not a chance. The British public, she thought, had no idea what the attrition rate was. Not a s...o...b..-doo. And now another soldier was down and the knowledge made her feel sick. Another young man whose life had changed for ever. The soldiers could joke all they liked about how they would be going to Rio to the next Olympics, the humourless reality was so very different. Maybe, when the guys got back to England, got to the rehabilitation stage, got their prosthetic limbs fitted, they found life looking up; but here at the field hospital, it was pretty grim. There was b.l.o.o.d.y little joking on the major trauma ward.

When she got to the helipad and ran up the rear ramp of the huge helicopter, the rotors were already starting to spin. There was no mucking about getting MERTs off the ground. Pre-flight checks on a normal mission could take twenty minutes; now time was of the essence, and everything, except the absolute basic safety procedures, was jettisoned in favour of gaining precious seconds. The stabilisation of casualties was still largely carried out on the battlefield and might have become the platinum ten minutes, kicking the idea of a golden hour right down the line, but the speed at which the injured could be got to the operating table was still crucial, and the pilots did all they could to help.

The speed of the rotors and the noise of the engine increased as Chrissie found a seat. The entire aircraft began to shake and, through the open tail ramp, the dust around the helipad began to kick up. One of the Force Protection Unit, the soldiers who guarded them on the ground at the sharp end, was busy strapping himself to the safety lines at the side of the helicopter and then kneeling behind a heavy machine gun, which he'd positioned on a tripod, at the very edge of the ramp. As if the body armour and helmet weren't enough to remind you this trip was really dangerous, that, thought Chrissie, surely left you in no doubt. That, and the Apache which would fly alongside providing some even more serious fire support.

She and the others were settling into their webbing seats hooked to the sides of the Chinook, when the news was relayed to the MERT medics that it wasn't going to be one casualty. There'd been a second incident in the battle now raging. Nervously the medical team smiled at each other, trying to convince both themselves and their colleagues that they weren't actually s.h.i.tting themselves. The soldiers flying with them, the guys who would deploy as soon as they landed, to secure the LZ, looked pumped up and full of adrenalin. But then, this was what they'd been trained for; this was their primary role.

The second nine-liner was pa.s.sed back down the helicopter. Chrissie scanned the proforma: one patient, T1, stretcher case, urgent surgical, UK soldier, area under sustained enemy attack, flares to mark the pick-up, she read. She didn't like the phrase 'area under sustained enemy attack'. Still, the worry over what might greet them when they landed at their destination took her mind off the discomfort she was feeling right now. The body of the Chinook was a metal box, which had been sitting in the desert sun the whole day it was now oven-like and Chrissie felt her whole body p.r.i.c.kling with sweat. She could feel rivulets of perspiration trickle down her spine, pour off her forehead, down her neck. Jeez, and she was only sitting still. What must it be like for the poor b.l.o.o.d.y infantry on the ground, fighting for their lives?

Her heart jolted up a notch as the shaking of the helicopter changed into a more violent trembling, and then everything suddenly swayed as the wheels lifted off the ground and they were airborne. She checked her lap strap and glanced out of the window. On the horizon, the sun was a blood-red disc as it slid behind the dust-laden air. Below, the camp was already flooded with light but, beyond the perimeter fence, away to the east, where night had already fallen, the darkness was Stone Age. Not a flicker, not a glimmer of light for as far as she could see. She turned back to look into the cabin and tried to keep her nerves under control.

Ten minutes later, she could tell they had to be near their destination. The movement of the Chinook had altered and once again they were swaying and bobbing in the air, not thrusting forwards. And then, b.u.mp, they were down.

The soldiers raced down the ramp into the hot, black night, guns c.o.c.ked and ready, to form a defensive ring around the Chinook, while the medics waited on board for the casualties to be brought to them by their comrades. They were ready, the drips were set up, the kit had been unpacked around the stretcher in the centre of the helicopter, and they waited. Above them the rotors spun; inside, the noise was still intense.

From where Chrissie was, she could see the surgeon talking into the head mic which connected him to the pilots. She could tell from his body language that something deeply frustrating was going on. A message, like Chinese whispers, was pa.s.sed down the line.

Phil punched her arm. 'Come on,' he yelled in her ear. 'We've got to get him.'

Chrissie stared at him, not quite comprehending, but Phil was getting two other medics on side.

'Come on, Chrissie.'

Suddenly she understood what he meant. They had to go out, into the battle, to retrieve the soldier. f.u.c.k! Scared, adrenalin pumping, she unclipped her belt and followed Phil off the chopper, thundering down the ramp into the dust kicked up by the Chinook and the smoke from the flare which had guided the pilot to the LZ. Even with the noise of the rotors and the whine of the engine, she could hear the crackle and pop of gunfire. Suddenly she was back on Exercise Autumn Armour, scared of what she might see, scared of what might happen. Only this time it was for real: real bullets, real injuries. She pulled herself together. She'd come a long way in six months this time she'd cope, she knew it.

Ahead, she could see four soldiers racing towards them, weighed down by a shape being carried in a poncho. The ambushed patrol could spare guys to get one of the casualties on board but it would be quicker for Phil and his team to grab the second man down while the first casualty was lifted into the helicopter and into the hands of the surgeon. The soldiers ran past them and into the Chinook while Phil led his team off to one side, towards a field of some sort of crop. Phil was in comms with the troops and the pilots and was obviously receiving instructions from someone with night vision goggles as, barely pausing, he led them through the tall plants.

Chrissie followed him, keeping as close as she could, trying not to admit to herself that she was using his body as a shield. She could see red tracer, arcing lazily through the sky, like a low-grade fireworks display. She breathed a sigh of relief that the bullets weren't heading their way. Then Phil stopped, so suddenly she almost cannoned into him. At his feet was a youth in a dirty white kaftan, eyes wide open and obviously dead. T4, thought Chrissie, and not a priority. But beside him was a soldier being worked on by the patrol's medic. If the medic was still working, the lad was still alive. The old adage where there's life there's hope was never so true as when the MERT arrived.

Phil whipped off his backpack and extricated a lightweight aluminium collapsible stretcher. In seconds it was a.s.sembled and the soldier was rolled onto it. It was then that Chrissie saw his face.

Lee!

Oh my G.o.d, Lee. And suddenly all her professional detachment, all her training went by the board as her insides went into freefall and two fat tears of love, fear and shock rolled down her cheeks.

And then someone punched her hard in the arm. What the f.u.c.k? And as the pain set in she realised it wasn't a punch she'd been shot.

28.