Desert OverWatch Page 2

  ‘I have a question, sir. How are we supposed to get in or out of Iraq on deployment or relief when all we’ve heard so far is how good the Iraqi air defence network is? Surely they’re going to see our chopper as soon as it enters Iraqi airspace? Or am I missing something here?’

  ‘Ah, good point. Our American allies are deploying some assets which will effectively blind their radar while any other coalition aircraft are operating inside enemy territory. Now, unless there’s anything else, I suggest you all bimble off to the mess and get some reasonable scran inside you before you get stuck with compo for the next five days.’

  The mere mention of having to live off composite rations had the assembled group eager to get to the mess for some half-decent food.

  ***

  Morgan collected his quadbike from the motor-pool and joined the others in convoy to the armoury, where they collected their weapons and personal kit. He kept his eye on Regan, way up front, as they rode across to the airfield where they embarked into a Chinook, ready for ingress across the border and into Iraq. This time, Roger decided, this time, he’d heal the breach between them once and for all. The longer their cold war went on for, the longer it would be before he got to see Carla again.

  The helo engines were idling as he found his seat and buckled up. He hated the ascent in the chopper. In a plane? No problem. Even a bumpy ride in a Hercules was better than in a Chinook, where the nose always dipped forwards as it picked up momentum when leaving the pad. He breathed shallowly and swallowed hard, hoping his scran—a poorly-chosen Full English—didn’t make a cameo reappearance.

  He'd once made the mistake of drinking too much at a family barbecue and telling his brother that chopper rides made him want to barf. Stupid. Stupid, stupid—even stupider still to do so in the company of every other military Morgan male, who’d mocked him for the rest of the day and then added this confession to their reasons to call him a pussy forever after. He hadn’t wanted to go into the forces. He was too fond of being his own boss. Running a business was more his thing; he loved the challenge of keeping a dozen plates spinning while bringing in the cash by the barrow-load. He’d fantasised more than once about taking a slug to the leg and getting honourably discharged. It wasn’t as if he’d ever get promoted beyond Lance Corporal, anyway—yet another reason for just about every smug fucker in his family to get on his case.

  He glanced across the cargo bay, where Regan had laid his head back against the helicopter’s fuselage. The rotors had only just taken the strain and begun lifting the Chinook’s bulk from the runway and the chilled-out git had already begun to snore.

  Morgan glared, wondering how Regan could have such a clear bloody conscience. If Carla were his, not Jim’s, he’d have got himself invalided out of the RM years ago and looked after her properly. Jim didn’t seem to know what he had. If he did, he didn’t appreciate her. Carla had always been so much more forgiving and open-minded than her fella. Maybe she needed to be that way to cope with Regan’s shoot-first-ask-questions-later philosophy.

  He was disturbed by a nudge from Irvine, next to him, and glanced over to see the man looking curiously at him.

  ‘Why are you staring daggers at Jim?’

  Not realising his expression had matched his mood, Morgan snapped on a smile. ‘I’m not pissed off, I’m just mystified.’

  ‘By what?’

  ‘Every time I’ve been on deployment with Jim, he’s been the same. When there’s nowt going on, he’s got his bleeding head down. I mean, I’m sweating fucking neaters and he’s fast asleep. How?’

  ‘Dunno. He’s been like it ever since I’ve known him. I reckon he could sleep if you hung him on a washing line.’

  Morgan chuckled. ‘So long as he doesn’t get bored when you’re on watch, that’s fine.’

  ‘Never. Not Jim. There’s no other squaddie I’d rather have by my side in a scrap.’

  And this is where I get reminded about his Military Medal.

  ‘You know he got the Military Medal, don’t you?’

  ‘Yep. It’s only been mentioned a couple hundred times.’ He managed a smile as he said it to rinse some of the resentment from his tone—his father would’ve killed to have a son like Jim Regan. His smile had been too successful, Morgan realised; Irvine, oblivious as ever, dived into the story with glee.

  ‘It was when we were down in the Falklands after Argentina invaded, and we were on the assault to take control of Mount Harriet. He managed to knock out an Argentinian machine gun post with grenades, after he got shot in the leg. And once he’d got to his feet, Jim…’

  Well… how nice to be the all-hailed fucking hero.

  Morgan mentally slapped himself for the thought the split second it’d passed through his head. He’d visited Jim in Guz a few days after he was flown home for recovery and the man had been a wreck, albeit putting a brave face on the very real possibility of getting retired from the forces altogether, let alone the Marines. As much as he Morgan hated this life, he knew what it meant to Jim, and he knew how hard the man had worked to get back into active duty. He respected that, if nothing else. He just wished, sometimes, that it would’ve been him in that position, and that he’d been forced into retirement. It would’ve meant a lifetime’s respect from his family and space to follow through his dream of having his own company, making boats.

  Irvine nudged him and he realised he’d been staring again while Irvine had been yakking on.

  ‘So how would you react?’ Irvine prompted, wide-eyed.

  ‘Sorry, I missed the last bit,’ Morgan lied. ‘Engine noise.’

  ‘Well, wouldn’t you get pissed off if your bird got addicted to yoga?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Well, it’s driving me mental.’ Irvine folded his arms. ‘She’s always bending herself into some fuck-awful position in front of the TV, I can’t move for tripping over one of them resistance bands, and she can’t even lie still and cuddle after a shag. I mean, sure, she’ll get her breath back, but after about two seconds, she’s doing handstands against the stud wall.’

  ‘I heard you got busted on home grounds,’ Morgan cut in, keen to change the topic.

  Irvine chuckled. ‘Well, it’s like this. A bunch of us in Diamond Lil’s got into a bit of a scrap with a bunch of pongoes who were in Guz doing amphibious training. They started on some sprogs in there from HMS Raleigh, who were on their first night off since joining the mob, so they were all in rig.’

  Morgan nodded. ‘Yep, sprogs always stood out like tits on a boar hog.’

  ‘Well yeah, but we can’t have the army picking fights with the Navy in Plymouth, of all places. So we piled in and give the pongoes a kicking—’

  ‘—And got nicked by the shore patrol,’ Morgan finished for him, chuckling for real this time. The scenario went back to the Napoleonic wars. ‘I heard they came down on you like a ton of bricks.’

  ‘Yeah, so I’m just glad I can fuckin’ shoot. Gives me a decent USP. The bollocking I got wouldn’t have been so bad, but I’d just got me stripes back from getting busted the last time. Fucking CO told me I should have them stuck on with velcro.’ Irvine laughed. ‘He’s probably got a point. Anyway Rodge, I’m going to try and get me head down for a bit.’

  ‘Sounds like a plan.’

  Whether it sounded like a plan or not, he knew that sleep wouldn’t come until he was on terra firma again, albeit in enemy territory. With Irvine finally silent, Roger closed his eyes and entertained himself by imagining Carla Regan naked.

  ***

  Chapter 3

  5th August

  A mini sandstorm kicked up as the Chinook landed roughly ten miles from the intersection of the two highways that Regan and Irvine had been detailed to watch.

  The loadmaster lowered the ramp as the helicopter neared the ground and as soon as the rear wheels touched down, he signalled the Marines to go. Regan and Irvine rolled down the ramp and onto the sand, opening their throttles and pulling away from the rotor blades downwash, before st
opping again to check their bearings.

  Within ten seconds the Chinook had taken to the skies again, leaving the two men behind in the desert night.

  Regan waited until the chopper was a speck in the distance before climbing off the quad and emptying grit out of every fold in his desert DPMs. ‘This is the one thing that fucks me off about getting off a helicopter in the desert,’ Regan said. ‘Fucking sand gets everywhere.’

  ‘Agreed,’ Irvine replied, running his hand around the collar of his jacket.

  After checking their GPS, the two-man patrol struck out towards the cloverleaf that formed the junction of highways one and eight.

  They reached their destination within an hour, and just as the dawn began to break across the desert. Regan and Irvine dug out a large foxhole near the top of a sand dune that was a mile from the intersection, but about fifty feet higher than the surrounding desert. They then pegged desert camouflage netting over the top of it to produce a hide from which they could perform overwatch of the desert highway junction.

  While Regan spread camouflage netting over the quad-bikes, Irvine set up the radio. By the time both men had everything set up, they’d stripped down to their shorts and boots as the sun had risen and begun cooking the desert.

  Irvine keyed up the radio. ‘Bravo-one-two, calling bravo-one-zero, bravo-one-two, calling bravo-one-zero, over.’

  A brief crackle, and then, ‘bravo one two, this is bravo one zero, reading you loud and clear. Pass your sit-rep, over.’

  ‘Bravo-one-zero, be advised we’re on station and have eyes on Clapham. Nothing else to report, out,’ Irvine said, giving the code name assigned to the road junction.

  ‘Roger that, bravo-one-two. You have eyes on Clapham. Bravo-one-zero out.’

  Their watch over the road junction took on the monotonous perspective of most surveillance work: long stretches of boredom interspersed with the occasional sighting of a potential target.

  ***

  8th August

  Teri gave Carla a swift smile as she bundled Patrick into the car along with Ted for the summer football camp, but there was no mistaking the judgemental concern in her eyes as she clambered behind the wheel.

  Teri’s expression clearly said, ‘she’s not coping’.

  Carla resented this. If Patrick were at school, she’d be doing her own share of the school pick-ups in the afternoon, still sending Patrick off with a full lunchbox and clean kit, still remembering which days he did PE and which days to get his swimming gear ready. She’d always been good at keeping on top of all that, even with Johnny waking at all hours of the night, screeching at the cramps in his belly around his stoma.

  She’d love to see Teri deal with that and keep her house looking like a show home.

  Keeping a stiff smile in place, Carla waved them off, thumped the front door shut and shuffled to the kitchen to make coffee. Cup in hand, she returned to the lounge and took up her usual position in the corner of the sofa. Johnny lay asleep in a pillow cocoon on the middle cushion, pulling his feet up to his face even in his sleep. Carla took a soft little foot in her palm and stroked the sole with her thumb as the nine o’ clock morning news started. Moira Stewart intoned the headlines and the screen cut to George ‘Dubya’ Bush repeating his insistence that Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait ‘will not stand!’

  Three days without a word.

  She didn’t count the day James landed in Riyadh. He rarely got the chance to check in the same day he was travelling.

  The screen cut from Dubya’s speech, which she was barely taking in, to footage of soldiers filing out of a Hercules in a sand storm with a desert horizon in the background. Carla was pretty convinced it was stock footage. Live footage or nor, the thought of a load of US soldiers flooding into Saudi Arabia didn’t bring any comfort; the reinforcements just made her worry about why so many more soldiers were needed to join the British troops already on the ground.

  ‘Logistics’, my arse. James didn’t become a Marine to do logistics.

  He’d always led from the front, even if just to evacuate a building after a fire alarm had gone off.

  She grinned at the memory of their wedding; the distance of time had allowed her to see the funny side of Roger Morgan’s little accident with the cigar and the crepe buntings. It was a small blaze that had incinerated a banner and a couple of chairs but it was put out quickly enough with a fire extinguisher. James had invited Roger over for drinks less often after that, which was a pity.

  Johnny squeaked, making her jump. She glanced over to see his little fists clenching and beating the air, his face going its usual bluey-red colour as he hitched air into his lungs and emptied them again in series of distressed, high-pitched squeals.

  ‘Hey, hey, hey… d’you want your feed already, little man?’ she cooed, lifting him from his cocoon. She took him to the feeding station in his bedroom, attaching the line and portable milk sack to his stoma. Back in front of the TV, she cradled him in her arms and allowed him to suck on a milk-coated dummy for comfort while the food flowed directly into his stomach.

  By the time he’d fed, and she’d removed his feeding tube and cleaned out his stoma, the Wee Pappa Girl rappers were finishing their attempt to do the world’s fastest rap on Record Breakers.

  The phone rang. Still holding Johnny, she lunged across the lounge to the hallway and snatched the receiver from the cradle. ‘Yes?!’

  ‘G-good morning. My name’s Ernest, and I’m called from SFD surveys. I just wondered if you had a few moments to answer some questions your home insur—’

  ‘Piss off!’

  Carla hung up so hard, she nearly ripped the phone’s base set off the wall. Johnny howled in protest, her rage making him anxious. Instantly remorseful, she walked him up and down for a while, humming until he settled. He didn’t complain about being put back in his cot, which she only reached by stepping around toys and over scattered, filthy muslins from the laundry over-spill.

  She sighed and looked around the married quarter, suddenly seeing it the way Teri probably had—as an absolute tip.

  By the time Patrick got home from football camp, his voice mingling with Ted’s as they debated the best moments of their 5-2 win, the place looked respectable. They piled into the kitchen and helped themselves to juice from the fridge. The fraught expression on Teri’s face was nowhere in evidence; she looked happily surprised and relieved as she took in the spotless view from the hallway.

  ‘You’ve been busy.’ Teri smiled, but the smile was kind. ‘Busy helps.’

  ‘It does.’ Carla felt ashamed for her earlier antagonism towards the woman and her impeccable home. Clearly people coped in different ways. Perhaps Teri scrubbed her fears away. Carla smiled at her, suddenly wanting some company. ‘Would you like a coffee?’

  ‘Thanks, but I’ve got to get Eric off to his rugby club. It’s all go, today.’

  ‘I’ll drive the boys to football tomorrow.’

  ‘You sure?’

  Carla kept smiling, trying not to read anything into the return of that kind, concerned expression. ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Mum!’ Patrick yelled, ‘We’re out of milk.’

  Johnny woke, his squeaks turning quickly into screams in the other room.

  ‘No crisps, either!’

  ‘I’ll get out of your way,’ Teri murmured, and rounded up Ted, bundling him to the door. ‘Tell you what, I’ll drop them off at camp tomorrow and you can pick them up, yeah?’

  ‘Got it,’ Carla said, seeing them to the door while heading for Johnny’s room.

  ‘When did you last do any shopping?’ Patrick yelled again from the kitchen. ‘I’m not having cheese toasties and Peperamis for dinner again.’

  Carla couldn’t meet Teri’s gaze as she saw them out. Okay, so she wasn’t coping. It was time to pull on the extra-thick-skin and call Kelly.

  ***

  9th August

  Four days into their watch, Regan was urgently woken by Irvine.

  He blinked his e
yes away from the sun, took a long swig from his flask and flipped onto his front. ‘Okay Trev, what's up?’

  ‘A mobile Scud missile launcher, lumbering along highway one in the direction of Kuwait.’

  ‘Jesus.’ Regan clapped his scope to his eyes but saw nothing but empty road and desert. ‘Trev… I’m not seeing it.’

  ‘I moved as quick as I could. I photographed the launcher as it passed the lookout position, marked the date and time on the plot, then called base to report the sighting. But by the time I’d done all that, the vehicle had gone off-road.’

  ‘You did right to call it in, don’t worry,’ Regan assured. ‘I’ll take one of the quads and track it down.’

  ‘Sure. I’ll call base to let them know you’ve begun covert pursuit—you get your gear together.’

  It only took Regan a few minutes to get himself organised, by which time Trev had secured permission for Regan to ‘disrupt’ the launcher’s journey, given the chance to do so.

  ‘Cheers,’ Regan said, clambering out of the fox hole. ‘Guard the spot, yeah? This is our bit of beach so don't let any marauding bedouin or Germans try to put their towels on our sunbeds.’

  ‘I hear you.’

  He crawled up out of the hide from the rear side, away from the road, and made his way down to the quads. Having dug his bike out from under the camouflage netting, and after covering up Irvine’s again, Regan fired up his own quad and set off in search of the scud launcher.

  The heavy vehicle had left clear tracks in the sand. Regan set off in pursuit, keeping his speed down to avoid kicking up a large dust trail. A while later, he spotted the launcher parked in a dune depression around a half-mile away. He backed the quad up until it was hidden from view.

  On the apex of the closest dune, Regan pulled out his binoculars and focussed on the launcher in the distance. Its crew rolled out camouflage netting to hide the big vehicle from above. Regan consulted his GPS, logged the co-ordinates, then settled down to keep watch.