five metres high. A collection of single-storey, flat-roofed buildings surrounded them. The whole settlement was no more than fifty metres in width, and Danny knew from satellite imagery that it extended the same distance in depth. About twenty metres in front of the village, to eleven o’clock of the OP, there was a parked vehicle. Danny thought he recognised the outline of a Land Rover. There was no sign of movement. It figured that there might not be any humans moving around at this time of night, but a Bedouin village normally meant animals. So far as Danny could see, there were none. Hardly proof positive that the villagers had been driven away, but a pretty good indicator nonetheless. Still, it didn’t mean a thing until they had a positive ID of the militants.
‘What you got?’ Boydie asked quietly.
‘Nothing,’ Danny said.
‘Anyone keeping stag?’
‘It’s a ghost town.’
A pause.
‘Fucking will be soon,’ Boydie said.
05.00 hrs.
Dawn crept slowly upon them. The desert grew imperceptibly lighter. Danny and Boydie lay silently in the OP, barely moving. They were facing due south, which meant they couldn’t see the sun rising, but the new day was barely twenty minutes old before Danny felt the sun growing hot on his left side and sweat started to seep from his skin. He sipped a ration of water from his CamelBak, then changed the kite sight for a new Leica spotting scope more suited to daytime use. Already the whole area was shimmering in a heat haze. There was no sign of Bedouin. No animals. No nothing.
Danny lowered the optic, grabbed one of the MREs and ripped it open. The contents were supposed to be heated through – boiled in the bag – but Danny simply squeezed the salty brown stew straight into his mouth. It was fuel, nothing more. Surveillance like this could take a very long time, and it was important to keep his energy levels up. ‘Tastes like shit,’ he murmured, more to himself than to Boydie.
‘Course it tastes like shit,’ Boydie replied. ‘How else they gonna keep us angry enough to kill people?’ He cut himself short. ‘Movement,’ he said. His voice was terse. Business-like.
Danny had barely swallowed a mouthful, but he dropped the MRE and looked through the scope again. Sure enough, he saw a vehicle trundling round the eastern side of the village. A Bedouin truck? Like hell. This wasn’t a dirty, run-down van used to transport animal feed. It was an open-topped pick-up, a technical with a top-mounted machine gun and five armed men surrounding it. They were all dressed exactly the same: keffiyehs, bandoliers of ammo strapped round their chests and assault rifles slung around their necks. Kalashnikovs, Danny reckoned, though from this distance it was hard to be sure. Not that it mattered either way. One thing was for sure: these were not ordinary Bedouin.
‘Don’t know about you,’ Boydie said as the pick-up passed between the village and the Land Rover, ‘but I think we just caught ourselves some militants with a .50-cal.’
‘Where do they get hardware like that from?’
‘We probably sold it to the gobshites, Snapper.’
Danny didn’t have time to reply. Boydie was already on the radio back to the George Bush ops room. ‘Zero, this is Charlie Alpha Five.’
Five seconds.
‘ Go ahead, Charlie Alpha Five. ’
‘We’ve got a visual on five tangos. Heavily armed. No sign of locals. Awaiting instructions.’
‘ Roger that, Charlie Alpha Five. Wait out, figures five. ’
The radio fell silent. Danny and Boydie kept the militants in their sights. The technical stopped almost directly to their twelve o’clock. Two of the guys climbed down and the vehicle continued back round the opposite side of the village and disappeared from sight. The men lit cigarettes and stood there, looking out across the desert. Even from a kilometre away, Danny could discern their arrogant slouch. One of them put binoculars to his eyes and scanned round. Danny felt himself
‘What you got?’ Boydie asked quietly.
‘Nothing,’ Danny said.
‘Anyone keeping stag?’
‘It’s a ghost town.’
A pause.
‘Fucking will be soon,’ Boydie said.
05.00 hrs.
Dawn crept slowly upon them. The desert grew imperceptibly lighter. Danny and Boydie lay silently in the OP, barely moving. They were facing due south, which meant they couldn’t see the sun rising, but the new day was barely twenty minutes old before Danny felt the sun growing hot on his left side and sweat started to seep from his skin. He sipped a ration of water from his CamelBak, then changed the kite sight for a new Leica spotting scope more suited to daytime use. Already the whole area was shimmering in a heat haze. There was no sign of Bedouin. No animals. No nothing.
Danny lowered the optic, grabbed one of the MREs and ripped it open. The contents were supposed to be heated through – boiled in the bag – but Danny simply squeezed the salty brown stew straight into his mouth. It was fuel, nothing more. Surveillance like this could take a very long time, and it was important to keep his energy levels up. ‘Tastes like shit,’ he murmured, more to himself than to Boydie.
‘Course it tastes like shit,’ Boydie replied. ‘How else they gonna keep us angry enough to kill people?’ He cut himself short. ‘Movement,’ he said. His voice was terse. Business-like.
Danny had barely swallowed a mouthful, but he dropped the MRE and looked through the scope again. Sure enough, he saw a vehicle trundling round the eastern side of the village. A Bedouin truck? Like hell. This wasn’t a dirty, run-down van used to transport animal feed. It was an open-topped pick-up, a technical with a top-mounted machine gun and five armed men surrounding it. They were all dressed exactly the same: keffiyehs, bandoliers of ammo strapped round their chests and assault rifles slung around their necks. Kalashnikovs, Danny reckoned, though from this distance it was hard to be sure. Not that it mattered either way. One thing was for sure: these were not ordinary Bedouin.
‘Don’t know about you,’ Boydie said as the pick-up passed between the village and the Land Rover, ‘but I think we just caught ourselves some militants with a .50-cal.’
‘Where do they get hardware like that from?’
‘We probably sold it to the gobshites, Snapper.’
Danny didn’t have time to reply. Boydie was already on the radio back to the George Bush ops room. ‘Zero, this is Charlie Alpha Five.’
Five seconds.
‘ Go ahead, Charlie Alpha Five. ’
‘We’ve got a visual on five tangos. Heavily armed. No sign of locals. Awaiting instructions.’
‘ Roger that, Charlie Alpha Five. Wait out, figures five. ’
The radio fell silent. Danny and Boydie kept the militants in their sights. The technical stopped almost directly to their twelve o’clock. Two of the guys climbed down and the vehicle continued back round the opposite side of the village and disappeared from sight. The men lit cigarettes and stood there, looking out across the desert. Even from a kilometre away, Danny could discern their arrogant slouch. One of them put binoculars to his eyes and scanned round. Danny felt himself
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