Trial Under Fire Read online

  “And if they are?” I knew it was sheer bravado made Tate ask the question.

  The sergeant’s eyes swept over me, and just before he wheeled his horse away he said, “Then they reflect badly on her.”

  9

  My first few return visits after undergoing basic training did not enamour me to my parents any more than joining up had done to begin with.

  But the third—or was it the fourth?—hit a new low. It had nothing to do with coming home in uniform, because as ever I was in civvies. It had everything to do with the way I arrived there.

  On a motorcycle.

  The old Yamaha RD350 LC was the first bike I bought that didn’t come with Learner plates as standard. I’d passed my motorcycle test and the open road, including all the motorways of England, was my playground. I intended to make the most of it.

  I hadn’t told my parents I was taking lessons, never mind that I’d got my licence and bought the Yam. Well, if you know they’re going to be pissed off, why not get it all out of the way at once?

  It was a nice theory.

  Even as I pulled up—still a little gingerly, I admit—on the expanse of loose gravel in front of the house, I caught sight of my mother’s figure at one of the tall drawing room windows. It didn’t take much imagination to paint a frown on her face at the arrival of some apparent hooligan.

  I wasn’t the only visitor, I saw. There was a two-year-old Range Rover pulled up by the front door. It had ‘county set’ written all over it. But I was willing to bet the thumping great 4x4 had never seen a splash of mud up the sides of its gleaming bodywork, and the nearest it ever got to actually being off road was parking on a grass verge.

  By the time I’d killed the engine and toed down the bike’s side stand, my mother was hovering in the open doorway, fingers of one hand playing anxiously with the strand of pearls at her throat. I tugged the strap of my helmet loose and peeled it off, revealing reddened cheeks imprinted with the weave of the lining, and a very bad case of sweaty hat-hair.

  “Charlotte! I–I didn’t know you were coming, darling,” she said, her voice pitched too high. She swallowed and brought it down to a level where passing bats were not endangered, stepping out onto the drive. “Aren’t you supposed to be on your…course?”

  The reason for her prevarication became clear when two other women appeared behind her from the hallway, not quite goggling at me, but not far off. I vaguely recognised the older woman. I didn’t know her name but I knew the type well enough. Some crony of my mother’s from the paramilitary fundraising wing of the local Women’s Institute.

  She moved past with a gracious smile, followed by a younger carbon copy who could only be her daughter or her clone. There was a uniformity of style to their outfits that showed less variation than army kit. I was the only one not wearing pearls.

  “It’s been so lovely to see you, Elizabeth,” the woman said. She air-kissed my mother’s cheek while eyeing me at the same time over her shoulder.

  “Oh yes, absolutely,” the daughter wittered. “Thanks awfully for afternoon tea. It was simply lovely. You must give me the recipe for that delicious cake.”

  “Yes, lovely,” my mother murmured vaguely.

  The woman blipped the Range Rover’s locks and hurried towards it as if afraid I might be contagious. “Come along, Diana.”

  I rested my lid on the Yamaha’s tank and regarded the pair of them. I knew the daughter, I realised. We’d competed against each other in Pony Club gymkhanas only a few years previously. Now it seemed decades ago.

  We must have been about the same age but there the similarity ended. She wore a pleated wool skirt and twinset in a dirty pink shade that was probably called ‘heather’. I wasn’t sure if it made her look prematurely middle-aged, or like a six-year-old playing dress-up in mummy’s clothes.

  “Hello, Charlotte,” she said, slightly breathless at daring to defy her mother’s summons. “Gosh, that’s never your motorbike! Surely you don’t ride that, do you?”

  I paused a beat. What did she think I did—took it in a taxi? “Yes, it is,” I said. And when the devil on my shoulder prodded me with his pitchfork, I added, “Why, want to take it for a spin?”

  She laughed and shook her head, and just for a moment I thought I spotted something regretful in her face. I remembered then that the pony Diana used to ride back when I’d known her was a lunatic who carted her off into the distance on a regular basis, and was prepared to jump or barge through any obstacle in its path. I’d admired her guts. Now, as her mother practically dragged her into the Range Rover and they disappeared down the drive, it seemed she rather admired mine.

  “Oh, Charlotte,” my mother protested, still waving to the departing 4x4. I waited to see if she was going to elaborate but that seemed to be the sum total of her indignation. I knew I’d embarrassed her in front of a woman who, while unlikely to be a friend, was certainly one of her social peers. No, I decided, she had simply just compared me to Diana and found me wanting in every way, from dress to attitude. She sighed. “I wish you’d let me know you were coming, darling.”

  I shrugged as I swung my leg over the back of the bike to dismount, stiff after the long journey. “Didn’t know for certain I was coming until this morning,” I fibbed. “I’m about to be posted. They’ve been cancelling leave on us left, right and centre.”

  “Oh…well, do come on in, then. I’ll make a fresh pot of tea. And I’m sure your father will be…pleased to see you.”

  She turned away as she spoke, but not before I caught the flash of something in her eyes. If I didn’t know her better, it might almost have been fear.

  ‘Pleased’ was not exactly the word I would have used to describe my father’s reaction to my presence—or to that of the Yamaha.

  He actually came out of his study to inspect my mode of transport, sniffing as he registered its age, engine size, and mileage. All of which were higher numbers than suited him.

  He wore dark green moleskin trousers and a Tattersall check shirt under a jumper that was probably cashmere.

  “If your mother and I had known you were thinking of buying a vehicle, Charlotte,” he said at last, “I’m sure we could have contributed towards a little car of some sort.”

  “I didn’t want a car,” I said, trying not to grind the enamel off my teeth. “I’m happy with the bike, thanks.”

  He made a noncommittal kind of grunt and led the way back inside. In his study he pulled out several manila folders from his filing cabinet and handed them to me. I opened the top one with cautious curiosity, skimmed the first couple of short paragraphs before glancing up in surprise.

  “Are these case notes from your patients?”

  He regained his chair behind the desk and steepled his fingers before nodding. “Redacted, of course. I’m writing a paper for the Journal,” he said. “On surgical techniques to repair injuries sustained in motorcycle accidents.”

  Anger manifested as a sudden heat in my face, a coldness in my hands. “I know the risks, and I’m careful.”

  He didn’t try to argue or dissuade me. “The only thing I ask is that you ride with the correct protective clothing,” he finished, gesturing to my ordinary denim jeans and trainers. I might almost have thought he cared, until he added, “It makes reconstructive work so much easier.”

  “I have a leather jacket and decent gloves.”

  “But not protective legwear or the proper boots,” he pointed out. “In my experience, by far the largest percentage of injuries sustained in motorcycle accidents are to the legs and feet—up to and including amputation.”

  I grimaced and dropped the file back onto his desk. “Yeah, thanks for that.”

  “If it’s a matter of money—”

  “No, it isn’t,” I cut in. “But I’m touched by the offer.”

  For a moment the silence stretched and tore between us. He cleared his throat. “How is your military training going?”

  “Why? Are you going to offer to buy me better body a
rmour for that as well?”

  He stared at me over the top of his reading glasses, just long enough for me to feel small.

  “Good. It’s good.” I huffed out a breath. “I just took my APWT and scored high enough to qualify for Marksman.”

  “APWT?”

  “Annual Personal Weapon Test.”

  “Ah, I see.” A pause. “And what purpose does being classified as a marksman serve?”

  I opened my mouth to snap at him for such a dumb question, then realised I didn’t have a prepared answer. We’d already been told that however good a shot we managed to become, as women in this man’s army, it was only ever going to serve us well in theory or in competition.

  “Well,” I said at last, “if they ever do decide to allow the odd female soldier to reach the sharp end of the military, it looks like I’ll be one of them, then, doesn’t it?”

  10

  We caught up with the others—I could now think of them by no names other than Sporty and Ginger—two hours later, above a small collection of patched and crumbling buildings in the bottom of a valley. They were lying out of sight in the rough scrub a little way back from the crest, keeping watch on the comings and goings, and pulled back to meet us when I raised them over the Bowman CNR. We were too far out for the personal radios to operate, particularly in this kind of terrain.

  “All quiet,” was how Sporty described the village. “No strangers in. No strangers out.”

  “How can you tell who’s a stranger and who isn’t?” I asked.

  Sporty glanced at me sharply but there was no challenge in my face or tone. It was a simple question.

  “For peasants, they can be very formal,” he said grudgingly, a moment later. “There are ways of treating guests that’s different from family. Trust me, I’d know if any of the people we’ve seen were outsiders. Nothing doing here.”

  “So far,” Ginger agreed. “Of course, the smart thing would be to keep tabs on them for another day or so, though.”

  The sergeant, Scary, shook his head. “We don’t have that luxury.”

  He nodded to the Bowman, indicating the message I’d picked up on the way in. It was in code—an apparently meaningless short phrase. I’d given them a read-back and passed it on to the sergeant, who hadn’t needed a translation. He told me to answer with a simple “received and understood” in plain language.

  Now he said, “The failed attack on the helo put the wind up them.”

  Sporty made a noise close to a snort. “Define ‘failed’ for me there, would you?”

  “Failed to capture any of us or kill all of us,” Scary said without missing a beat. “According to the chatter, the meeting has been brought forward twenty-four hours.”

  Sporty swore, turning away as if to curtail some worse reaction. Ginger went very still, eyes flicking over the sergeant’s face.

  “So…what d’you reckon?”

  Scary shrugged. “I reckon it’s a bad idea, but this whole thing was half arsed to start with, so why should anything change now?” He looked to Brookes. “Here’s the thing. One of the chief guy’s nephews has been sick for a while. They’ve asked if our medic can take a look at him. It could be genuine, or it could be a setup, but it’s what they want in return for helping us. You up for risking it?”

  Brookes blew out a long breath. “How old is he?

  “The nephew? About five or six.”

  Brookes nodded, like that tipped the balance. “Best do it then, eh?”

  “OK.”

  Automatically, I got to my feet, but Scary stopped me with a look. “Not you, Charlie.”

  Tate grinned. “If these are peasants, they still keep their women barefoot and pregnant and chained to the kitchen sink. Don’t want to shock ’em, do we?”

  He seemed unfazed by the vicious glares thrown by the sergeant as well as me. They flashed across and thudded in around him like knives in a circus act.

  “I was going to say I planned to keep her on the outside as a kind of Get Out of Jail Free card,” Scary said mildly. He paused, “But we will need an interpreter, so you’re coming.”

  Tate’s grin fell away. I was careful not to let one sprawl across my own face in response. You go asking for something and you can’t be too surprised when you get it.

  Scary glanced across at Ginger and Sporty. “You two stay up here with Charlie.”

  “Don’t tell me—overwatch.” Ginger’s voice was resigned. “OK, pal. If the worst comes to the worst, we’ll do what we can.”

  It wasn’t lost on me that he glanced at Sporty rather than me as he spoke. And in truth I didn’t know whether to be insulted or relieved.

  I helped Tate and Brookes climb back onto their horses, on the grounds that I may as well act as groom if nothing else. As I tightened the girth strap on the bay mare Brookes was riding, I wished him luck.

  “Thanks,” he said with a thin smile. “As long as this kid’s got something I can a) diagnose and b) treat, then hey, what is there to worry about?”

  I patted the mare on her narrow shoulder as he turned her away and nudged his heels into her sides. Not a horseman yet, by any means, but he was picking it up.

  The sergeant waited until we had moved forward and set up in what little cover was available before the group started out. They circled to a well-worn path and began to descend towards the village. The horses moved carefully, picking their way down as the incline steepened. Their hooves slid away from under them on the loose scree with unnerving regularity. All I saw was a sudden lurch, then both horse and rider seemed to disappear in a cloud of choking dust. After a beat they’d emerge, the horse snorting and shaking the dirt out of its ears and the rider clinging on for grim death. Not easy to try to look relaxed and unthreatening under the circumstances. I’m not entirely sure they carried it off.

  I tracked their progress through the Schmidt and Bender scope, aware of Ginger alongside me and Sporty a little way off to my right. Ginger’s eyes were fixed to the scene below.

  “And we have movement,” he murmured, his tone of voice suggesting it had been only a matter of time.

  “Where?”

  “You see the bombed-out house? Next to the other bombed-out house.”

  “Yeah, thanks, that’s really not—”

  But I caught a glimmer of movement then through my free eye, and realised guiltily I should have been watching the buildings more closely rather than our guys. I hutched my body sideways, pivoting the rifle from the back rather than lift and reposition the front bipod legs, screwing them into the dirt.

  “Ah, OK. I have him,” I muttered. A skinny figure in a long grey kameez shirt that flapped about his knees as he ran, a dark waistcoat with an upright collar, and a rounded skullcap that I vaguely remembered was called a kufi. “A kid—teens, maybe.”

  “Age means nothing. Arse, I’ve lost him. Can you see him? His hands? What’s in his hands?”

  “Wait one… Ah, there. No, nothing. Hands are clear.”

  “I got him. Arms are swinging. Always check that. If he’s not moving his arms, chances are he’s hiding something under his clothing. Look for arm swing, a natural kinda gait, OK?”

  “Have that.”

  “Jeez, pal, did you go to a posh school or what?”

  “What?” I whispered sharply, trying to keep my jaw clamped shut both so my face didn’t shift against the stock and so I didn’t take in a mouthful of dust. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Maybe ’cause you don’t say ‘roger that’ like one of us normal folk.”

  “Oh aye, dead posh, that’s me,” I muttered back, deliberately squashing my accent flat. “I lift me pinkie finger when I drink me tea an’ all.”

  He gave a soft chuckle and despite everything that was going on I felt a little of the tension ease out of my neck and arms. Which was, I realised, the reason why he’d done it.

  “Where’s the kid now?”

  “Just approaching one of the houses.” I checked the shadows, made a swi
ft calculation. “On the northeast side of the main street. One of the few that doesn’t looked as though it’s been bombed.”

  “The biggest one—with the compound?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Watch the roof. If they’re planning an ambush, that’s the logical place to do it from. They’d have the elevation, with a bit of stonework for cover.”

  His voice betrayed no emotion at the possibility of two of his fellow team members being waylaid and slaughtered. And two of my team along with them.

  I swallowed past the lump in my throat. “I, em, thought this was Pashtun territory.”

  “So?”

  “Don’t they have some kind of ethical code—about offering hospitality to strangers?”

  “Pashtunwali, aye,” Ginger agreed. “But there are some who’d argue that melmastia, as they call being friendly to visitors, doesn’t apply when you’re dealing with infidels and heathens the likes of us.”

  More people appeared from houses. All men. They carried weapons—old Lee-Enfields and the occasional AK—but mainly slung over their shoulders rather than readied to fire.

  They watched the group of horsemen ride sedately into the village, closing in around them and pointing the way to the house where the boy had disappeared. As they reached it and halted, an older man came out. He was dressed in the same loose trousers and long shirt, but immaculate in pale cream. From the way the others deferred to him, I guessed the newcomer was the local chief Scary had mentioned. Alongside him were several younger men, all dressed in similar clothing. All had beards. All were armed.

  I forced myself to keep scanning the rooftops while a brief exchange took place in the street. Scary brought Tate up alongside him to translate, and they motioned in Corporal Brookes’ direction a couple of times.

  Whatever Tate said to him, the chief seemed happy. After a few minutes, all four dismounted and were ushered into the house. Their horses were led away. The men who’d gathered at their arrival dispersed as if under curfew. Before long, the dirt street was eerily empty again. It was as if they had gone into hiding.