Read Online THE UNKNOWN SOLDIER by Gerald Seymour - Free Book Online
Authors: Gerald Seymour
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asleep. What time is it?'
Marty blinked at the ceiling light.
The duty officer who manned night-time communications in the Agency's corral stood over him.
'The time is about ten minutes after the Best and the Brightest have finished a good lunch in the senior staff diner at Langley. An excellent time, they believe, to fuck with the lives of low-rank foot-soldiers. Local time, if you need it, is ten after midnight. Read this, Marty, and inwardly digest . . . Seems clear enough, even for a pretend pilot.'
Marty worked the sleep from his eyes, reached out and took the offered sheet, and read. He read it again. The duty officer was raking round the little room with its low ceiling and hardboard walls. He read it a third time, like he hoped it would go away but it didn't.
'Shit. . . Who's seen it?'
'George - well, he's the one who's going to have the headache. I felt he should be first.'
George Khoo, the Chinese-born mission technical officer, was responsible for keeping First Lady and Carnival Girl maintained and operationally ready. Down the corridor, through the thin door and the thin walls of the rooms, Marty heard a door slam, then boots hammering away, and he heard a shout of protest at the disturbance.
George wouldn't have cared, not now he'd been given Langley's orders.
'So, what did George say?'
'That's a real nice picture, that is, pretty cool . . . Nothing I'd care to repeat.'
There was a framed photograph of his parents outside their cabin in the hills up north from Santa Barbara. But the duty officer was staring in fascination at a big picture in a gold-rimmed frame, Marty's pride and joy. He'd seen it on the Internet, offered by a firm in London, and it had arrived at Bagram six weeks back. The legend under it was 'The Last Stand of the 44th Regiment at Gundamuck, 1842'. It showed fourteen Brit soldiers clustered in a little circle, rifles raised and bayonets fixed; a couple of them had sabres drawn, and plenty more Brits were spread round the group, dead or wounded, and the tribesmen were coming up the hill towards them. It didn't seem that the Brits had a single round left between them. Behind the tribesmen were snow-covered mountains. It was by William Barnes Wollen, born 1857, died 1936.
'That is a really cool picture.'
Marty grunted and pulled himself off the bed. It was the first picture he'd ever owned and it had cost him seventy-five dollars for the print, ninety dollars for the frame and $110 for shipment, but it had survived the transportation. In front of the men who were going to die, and knew it, an officer stood, sword in one hand, a revolver in the other, straight-backed like all Brits were supposed to be, and he wore a suede coat with fur lining. Under the coat the gold-decorated flag of his regiment was wrapped round him and worth defending.
The officer, Lieutenant Souter, had been spared because the Afghans thought him too important - he had the flag - to castrate and kill, so he'd been ransomed. Marty had done research on the Internet, but he didn't tell the duty officer.
'Has Lizzy-Jo been woken up?'
'Thought I'd give that pleasure to you .. .'
The duty officer left him. Marty swigged water from his bottle and spat it into the sink, then unhitched his robe from the door hook.
He knocked on Lizzy-Jo's door, heard her, went in. She sat up in her bed and didn't seem bothered that her pyjama top was open.
Marty said, 'We're being moved. We're pulling out in the morning, heading to Saudi Arabia, don't know for how long . . . George - God, and I wouldn't like to be near him - has gone off to get the birds in the coffins. The plane to lift us is being readied.'
She heard him out, then told him to switch off the ceiling light and turned to the wall. He went out. Only Lizzy-Jo could go back to sleep in the face of such crazy intrusion into the routine of their work - it would have taken an earthquake to frazzle her.
As the night ended, the flotilla broke formation. Five of the launches
Marty blinked at the ceiling light.
The duty officer who manned night-time communications in the Agency's corral stood over him.
'The time is about ten minutes after the Best and the Brightest have finished a good lunch in the senior staff diner at Langley. An excellent time, they believe, to fuck with the lives of low-rank foot-soldiers. Local time, if you need it, is ten after midnight. Read this, Marty, and inwardly digest . . . Seems clear enough, even for a pretend pilot.'
Marty worked the sleep from his eyes, reached out and took the offered sheet, and read. He read it again. The duty officer was raking round the little room with its low ceiling and hardboard walls. He read it a third time, like he hoped it would go away but it didn't.
'Shit. . . Who's seen it?'
'George - well, he's the one who's going to have the headache. I felt he should be first.'
George Khoo, the Chinese-born mission technical officer, was responsible for keeping First Lady and Carnival Girl maintained and operationally ready. Down the corridor, through the thin door and the thin walls of the rooms, Marty heard a door slam, then boots hammering away, and he heard a shout of protest at the disturbance.
George wouldn't have cared, not now he'd been given Langley's orders.
'So, what did George say?'
'That's a real nice picture, that is, pretty cool . . . Nothing I'd care to repeat.'
There was a framed photograph of his parents outside their cabin in the hills up north from Santa Barbara. But the duty officer was staring in fascination at a big picture in a gold-rimmed frame, Marty's pride and joy. He'd seen it on the Internet, offered by a firm in London, and it had arrived at Bagram six weeks back. The legend under it was 'The Last Stand of the 44th Regiment at Gundamuck, 1842'. It showed fourteen Brit soldiers clustered in a little circle, rifles raised and bayonets fixed; a couple of them had sabres drawn, and plenty more Brits were spread round the group, dead or wounded, and the tribesmen were coming up the hill towards them. It didn't seem that the Brits had a single round left between them. Behind the tribesmen were snow-covered mountains. It was by William Barnes Wollen, born 1857, died 1936.
'That is a really cool picture.'
Marty grunted and pulled himself off the bed. It was the first picture he'd ever owned and it had cost him seventy-five dollars for the print, ninety dollars for the frame and $110 for shipment, but it had survived the transportation. In front of the men who were going to die, and knew it, an officer stood, sword in one hand, a revolver in the other, straight-backed like all Brits were supposed to be, and he wore a suede coat with fur lining. Under the coat the gold-decorated flag of his regiment was wrapped round him and worth defending.
The officer, Lieutenant Souter, had been spared because the Afghans thought him too important - he had the flag - to castrate and kill, so he'd been ransomed. Marty had done research on the Internet, but he didn't tell the duty officer.
'Has Lizzy-Jo been woken up?'
'Thought I'd give that pleasure to you .. .'
The duty officer left him. Marty swigged water from his bottle and spat it into the sink, then unhitched his robe from the door hook.
He knocked on Lizzy-Jo's door, heard her, went in. She sat up in her bed and didn't seem bothered that her pyjama top was open.
Marty said, 'We're being moved. We're pulling out in the morning, heading to Saudi Arabia, don't know for how long . . . George - God, and I wouldn't like to be near him - has gone off to get the birds in the coffins. The plane to lift us is being readied.'
She heard him out, then told him to switch off the ceiling light and turned to the wall. He went out. Only Lizzy-Jo could go back to sleep in the face of such crazy intrusion into the routine of their work - it would have taken an earthquake to frazzle her.
As the night ended, the flotilla broke formation. Five of the launches
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