Thanks to everyone who has taken the time to read and review/message.
This has been a long time coming and I apologise – life has been fraught with complications recently and writing was pretty much the last thing on my mind. This has, in fact, been half-written for a while but I finally managed to get my act together and finish it off – it ended up quite a lot longer than I thought it would – maybe this will go some way towards making up for the delay?
It is going up un-betaed as my guilt on the delay made me think I should probably get it up asap – please let me know if you spot any mistakes. Thanks!
Sam had never prayed so fiercely, but still the bullets continued to impale the nearby vehicles and buildings. The US Marines around him were shouting out, trying to be heard by their team mates over the continuous staccato of gunfire, desperate to find a way out of the kill zone.
It should have been a simple mission – a Chinook had been shot down nearby, heading back to base after dropping off a small recon team, and while the bodies of two crew members had been recovered, the pilot and a door gunner were still unaccounted for. Images picked up from C130s and satellite coverage had not turned up much, and the terrain was much too rough for vehicles to easily traverse off the roughly hewn tracks. It was generally believed that the men were likely being held in the local region – a mass of rocky crags and crevices that could provide plenty of shelter for anyone who did not want to be seen from above.
There was a local tribal leader who had largely ignored the war as best as he could, but the Americans were desperate to get him on board as few had such knowledge of the local area, an area crawling with the Taliban group suspected of holding the US soldiers.
Sam had been brought in by Military Intelligence in the belief that some trained with Psy. Ops. might well be the only way to get the recalcitrant leader to change his mind and join the war on their side. He'd barely spent ten minutes talking to the tribal elder before all hell broke loose – apparently, the US military were not the only group looking to secure the loyalty of the local tribe.
Satellite imagery and recent local intelligence indicated little enemy movement in the area, and so a smaller force was sent in an effort to be discreet – only three Humvees had entered the small hamlet and all of them were beyond repair. The remains of the lead vehicle were blocking half of the only road out of there and the smell of burning rubber was strong and noxious – Sam was grateful for it, however, as it at least somewhat masked the smell of the bodies that were still trapped inside the fiery, mangled husk of the Humvee. The other two vehicles had escaped the IED but not the small arms fire – the insurgents had aimed for the engines and the drivers, effectively cutting off a vehicular escape.
Sergeant Wilkes, Bravo Team's leader, was by Cooper's side, using his not inconsiderable body mass to push the intelligence expert further into the dirt. From his prone position, Sam could make out the bodies of at least three Marines. He knew that two of them were dead, but he could hear the ragged breathing of the third – the death rattle indicated that the soldier didn't have much time
He closed his eyes, unable to watch the spectacle play out before him. He'd been in the military too many years, seen too many deaths, too many young men and women who'd had their lives ripped from them in the most traumatic of circumstances.
He'd done his best to distance himself from most of the soldiers after only a year, unable to see any more of his friends die from bullets and shrapnel, IEDs and RPGs. There were still those who slipped through the carefully constructed walls, of course – Mick Rawson had seemingly managed to slip past every defence Sam had fought so hard to maintain, and the dangerous nature of Special Forces often had the profiler's imagination running into overdrive.
He couldn't say what it was that had first allowed the young Welshman to slip by his defences, but he suspected that a large part of it was to do with an underlying sense of vulnerability in the man. Mick could be cocky as hell, especially in regards to his abilities as a soldier – he was one of the best snipers in the world, more than adept at bomb disposal and a natural tactician, and in the heat of battle he was cool, calm and collected, courageous and fiercely protective. But underneath all that there was a wary young man who had suffered much throughout his life.
A sudden searing pain cut Sam from his thoughts, but with Wilkes still pushing him into the dirt, trying to shield his body as much as possible, he was unable to assess the injury. He tried to move and the pain lanced through him at the speed of light, his short sharp cry alerted Wilkes to the problem.
"Shit!" he exclaimed. "They're trying to flank us," he informed the men as he estimated the trajectory from Cooper's injury. He dragged the man behind a low wall and dug through his webbing for a field-bandage. "Cooper, look at me!" he ordered fiercely, giving the profiler a short, sharp tap on one cheek.
Sam blinked through eyelids that suddenly seemed all too heavy. The pain was immense and yet he also felt an increasing distance from it. The encroaching sense of oblivion was terrifying in its potency but Sam was struggling to focus on Wilkes's face, even as it loomed above him.
"That's right," Wilkes nodded, in near panic at the way a simple operation had turned into such a clusterfuck in the mere blink of an eye. "Just keep your eyes open and look at me. We're going to get out of here," he promised the injured man, his tone not entirely convincing.
Wilkes was a good soldier, but he was an untested leader – he had never been in a situation where everything fell to him and to him alone. They had been ambushed, caught unawares, and the casualty rate was already dramatically high for Bravo Team's relatively small numbers, and now all who were left were dependent upon his leadership – the very idea was almost soul-crushing in its intensity.
He ordered the men to spread out along the limited cover they had, desperate to utilise those still standing in the best possible way. Every available corner, low-lying wall and even the shabby well were providing some measure of cover for the remaining Marines, all alert for any movement. However, with the adrenaline dying down, Wilkes knew he was going to have to start organising watches.
Once a lull in the fighting started, he quickly made his way to one of the two remaining Humvees with a Corporal in toe, passing off what little he could salvage from the vehicles that hadn't already been taken as they'd scrambled for cover – ammo, MRE's, and water were the fundamental necessities. The 50 Cal. on one of the Humvees was out of commission and Wilkes made sure to take the ammo box from the remaining gun – if the weapon was going to be used, it was going to be aimed by a Marine, not at a Marine.
He could do nothing for the dead in his team and already the sweltering heat beating down on the bodies was adding to the acrid odour of burnt flesh. However, wrapped around the bodies of his dead men, his friends, were assault rifles, side-arms and webbing full of ammo, food and basic medical supplies. Collecting them was a rather morbid task, one he tried to do without looking into the faces of the men he had failed, but Wilkes was quick and efficient, reliant upon his men to cover his six as he did what he could to salvage the terrible circumstances they found themselves in, unsure of how long they would need to hold out and how many they were facing.
The locals, terrified at being seen to cooperate with the Americans having long since heard what happened to collaborators, had all but barred their doors, leaving the wounded men to lie, dazed and in pain outside, behind whatever cover the small hamlet afforded them.
The surrounding landscape was rocky and uneven, providing the Taliban with plenty of hiding places, easy enough to duck down behind and avoid the incoming fire, and the contours allowed for plenty of unseen manoeuvring to occur.
Wilkes had ordered them to conserve their ammo as much as they could, and finally feeling as though he had Bravo Team as ready and prepared as they could be for a full scale attack, he slowly made his way back to the remaining Humvees, hugging the ground as close as he could without resorting to actual crawling.
The first Humvee he came to yielded little success, the radio shattered by previous bullet fire, but the one at the rear of the convoy was relatively intact. He gingerly moved the dead body in the driver's seat that was draped over the radio – he hated it, the thought that immediately surfaced and refused to die, but Chavez, slumped over the dash like that, had probably saved the radio…could well have secured their only chance at calling for immediate support.
Unfortunately, he heard nothing over the net that gave him much hope. They were not risking an extraction by air, as the downed Chinook meant that the Taliban clearly had anti-aircraft guns somewhere in the area. The rough terrain meant that there was only one way into the small hamlet, and reconnaissance from a circling plane showed heavy enemy presence, which meant that securing any land exfil. would take time.
Wilkes had been told that there was a group of British Special Forces in the area, but what they were doing and how near or far they were doing it was not imparted, but he imagined it could well be a search and rescue party – the best, and most likely, the only way to find the missing airmen would be a recce mission carried out on foot amongst the jagged landscape by those who knew what they were about, and the SAS certainly knew what they were about.
The Sergeant's best hope was that either the UKSF had heard the shots as the echoes cracked their ways through the mountainous region, and were already making their way towards their position, or that he and his Marines could hold out against the Taliban long enough for Allied forces to secure the road and send up reinforcements.
They had been holding their own for almost two hours before they heard the shots – shots that were not aimed at them and definitely didn't come from the Taliban weapon-of-choice, the AK47. In fact, it sounded very much like a C8 Carbine, a UKSF weapon-of-choice, and Wilkes almost sagged with the relief that there was help on hand.
It took another half-hour before someone called out that friendlies were coming in from the East and to hold fire in that sector – Wilkes ordered everyone watching that quadrant to stand down while everyone else offered cover fire to those coming in.
The Sergeant was dismayed that there were only five men, but from what little he knew of the SAS, they often worked in teams of around four, especially on reconnaissance missions, so he was not surprised. He looked at the uniforms, trying to identify the man in charge, but all of the uniforms had been sanitised with no hint of rank and file.
"We heard the shots," one man informed him.
"And you thought you'd join the party?" Wilkes replied with a smile, all too sure that the palpable relief was apparent for everyone involved.
"Well we were in the area and we didn't want you to have all the fun," the man smirked back. "Manx, at your disposal, or Captain Rothers – take your pick," the officer said, all too aware that while he might be relatively lax when it came to rank and file, others were not.
"Sergeant Wilkes," he offered a quick hand and felt that it all seemed a little too casual given that there was still incoming fire and little cover, but he was too grateful and too proud not to play along and pretend that he was calm and capable in the situation.
"Well, you've done a damn good job setting up your perimeter," Manx added. "If your men can hold on while we see what else we can do…" he trailed off, not wanting to give the man an order but making sure it was understood that his suggestion was to be followed. He outranked the American in front of him, but he was in the British Army while Wilkes was in the US Navy and that was reason enough for any unease when it came to who had ultimate authority in any given situation, not to mention his dislike of pulling rank even when he could.
Wilkes swiftly ordered his men to resume their watch, keeping it at one hundred percent. He was glad to see the other four SAS men had also sought cover and were keeping watch over their CO – five more soldiers wasn't a lot in the grand scheme of things, but it was enough to ease the burden somewhat.
"Can you make it down the mountain on foot?" Manx added, looking at the battle-weary men around him with a certain degree of certainty that his question was not going to be met with a positive answer.
"Not a chance," Wilkes shook his head. "We've got too many injured, not to mention all the dead – I don't think I could stomach leaving them here with the Taliban ready to swoop in and use their bodies for the latest recruitment drive."
Manx nodded – 'leave no man behind' was an excellent idea in theory, but it wasn't always feasible in practise, especially in regards to Spec. Ops. and while he too felt that the retrieval of the dead soldiers was an important task, he had to prioritise and the needs of the living were much more important.
"Where are the worst off?" Manx asked. "We can at least give them what medical supplies we have left. If we need to move, it will probably have to be fast – they'll need to be in as fit a state as we can get them."
"There down there, behind the wall. We've already had one soldier bleed out but the rest are relatively minor and they should be able to hold out for a few more hours, provided the shock doesn't get them first. Cooper, a guy from Intel., took a bullet to the leg and he's lost a lot of blood but he's still conscious – he's probably the worst off right now."
"Sam Cooper?" asked one of the other British soldiers. "Big black guy with a near permanent frown and the constant stench of Catholic guilt?"
"That's him," Wilkes laughed a little at the accurate albeit not altogether kind character depiction.
"Bollocks!" the soldier exclaimed quietly. "Manx?"
"Go check him out," the older man allowed. "See what you can do for him." He turned back to Wilkes and asked about radio communication, relieved to find out that help was on the way – they just had to hold out until that help actually arrived.
The SAS trooper was crouching low and headed towards the temporary shelter for the injured when another volley of gunfire erupted, splintering through the wood and stone around them.
"Danny? Cover me!" Mick shouted as he ran through a hail of bullets to reach his friend. He could see the bodies of several Marines, already beyond help – the smell of burning flesh almost made him gag, dredging up memories of that ill-fated day several years ago that saw him end up a helpless POW.
He shook his head quickly, as if trying to physically dislodge the thoughts. Sam needed him present and focused – he was no good to anyone if he let himself get caught up in bad memories.
Finally, he made it to the low wall that was hiding his friend from the worst of the incoming fire. Sam was propped up, his head still hidden from view, but raised slightly to fight off shock. His eyes were open, but unfocused, his hands slick with blood as they sat uselessly by the bullet-wound.
"Hey there, mate," Mick said quietly as he reached his friend. He carefully examined the bandaged leg and saw that the wrapping was already soaked through. He took out his own field-bandage and wrapped it tightly around the one already in place, mumbling quiet reassurances to his near insensible friend as he did so.
He didn't have any more supplies on him, having already used the rest of his small medley of medical supplies earlier in the day, besides, he didn't think giving Coop any morphine would do much to help – the man was nearly oblivious to the pain by now but he was struggling to remain conscious and alert. He wasn't sure why he wanted Sam to cling so desperately to painful consciousness under the circumstances, but Mick supposed it was an instinctual need, a tacit correlation between staying awake and staying alive.
"We need to move," Mick informed Manx, who had made his way to the low-lying wall with Wilkes in toe, ducking quickly to avoid the incoming fire. "We don't have nearly enough shelter here and our field of view is almost none existent," he pointed out needlessly.
The smoke from the burning Humvee was already limiting their vision and the bullet-riddled husks of the other two vehicles covered one too many alleys, hiding the insurgents' movement with little difficulty. The low-lying wall was not very long, having long ago fallen into disrepair, and the shots were increasingly coming from the side.
"They're trying to flank us and we're too much out in the open here, Manx" Danny called out. "We need to move!"
"We can't go into the buildings – we'd endanger the civilians," the Captain replied, frustration barely hidden, as his mind worked through their options.
"Then we need to move back into the mountains," Danny replied with certainty. "There are a whole host of cave networks we've already gone through, but I don't think we want to corner ourselves in them unless things get really desperate. With the number of ravines and overhangs in the area we can find somewhere with better cover than this!"
Manx lowered himself further down to the ground and pulled out the silk map of the area – he'd added a few notations already on their recent recce mission and was trying to work out the best place to go and settle in for the long haul.
They had been out in the mountains with nine men, two teams of four with him as OC, trying to map out the rough terrain as best as they could and see if they could track down any sight of the missing airmen. They'd come across a lot of activity just to the North of the Pakistani border and suspected that the missing soldiers may well have been taken over the boundary – they didn't have clearance to go over the border, but Manx imagined a covert op. may well be close at hand.
The border was always a dangerous place to be – the Taliban used the Allied Forces inability to cross over without threatening Pakistani sovereignty as a means of protection. That meant that the mountainous terrain along the border was awash with enemy combatants, hiding in amongst the caves and ravines as they moved from Afghanistan to Pakistan under cover of night, aware that permission needed to be sought by their pursuers at the risk of an international incident.
The small group of soldiers had followed tracks to the southern border of Kandahar before relaying their findings. They had been ordered to keep an eye on the border for a few more days, making exploratory excursions into the local landscape, and trying to figure out where in the area the Taliban were holing up and where they were crossing the border.
It was a fine plan in theory, but on the barren landscape movement was easy to track and not just for the Allied Forces – they'd been watching the border for three days when finally one of the teams were spotted.
It had been sheer bad luck rather than inexperience, that gave them away and two members of the team went down almost as soon as the first shot was fired. Dougal was still considered the FNG of the group but Manx was impressed that the former Black Watch soldier managed to hold it together as well as he had, swiftly offering cover fire to allow the other men to move in and help the wounded. Between the two teams they made a hasty retreat out of hostile territory.
Moving their way through the mountainside as quickly as injuries allowed managed to put something of a gap between them and their pursuers – the rugged landscape that so often served to hide the Taliban was finally acting as their camouflage. As soon as they could, they huddled down and saw to the wounded before radioing in a situation report. It was there that they learned about the US Marines under-fire a few clicks to the East of their position.
Manx had made the decision to split the teams – Trigger was to lead Dougal down the mountain to a designated exfil. point, helping the two wounded men make their way down. He would lead Benn, Rawson, Wallcroft, and Harrigan to help out the besieged Marines.
They'd already used up most of their basic medical supplies on their own wounded and what they'd had left was used by the wounded Marines. They had been working recon, so they'd deliberately avoided conflict when and where they could, which meant that while they were still ok for ammo, they'd been travelling relatively lightly anyway. What worried Manx was that they had little food and water left – it would have been fine if they only needed to care for themselves, but they now had several hungry and thirsty Marines to worry about, too.
The incoming fire had shredded the water cans tied to the back of the vehicles and all that was left was what was in the canteens – they could fill them from the hamlet's well, but even so, if they were stuck in the mountains for more than a couple of days while further ground troops secured the route up for a medevac, they could run into difficulties. Thankfully, Wilkes had already thought ahead for food and had salvaged as many MREs as he could from the bullet-riddled vehicles – if the worst should happen, they could always go down to one square a day.
He turned to see Rawson giving Cooper a little water from his canteen and frowned. The interrogation expert looked more than a little worse for wear and Manx didn't much relish the idea of moving him over hard ground for any period of time – if the wound were to reopen there was only so much they could do in the barren landscape as underequipped as they were to deal with such injuries.
Another short burst of incoming fire reigned down upon them and Mick cried out with pain, before throwing himself down over Coop in an effort to shield the inert man. Somewhere, his cry of pain must have registered with Sam despite the noise of gunfire – although barely able to focus and certainly without any degree of coordination, he struggled under the weight of his friend as he tried to see the problem. The constant jostling about exacerbated Mick's pain, pulling on the injuries as Sam strived to remove himself from the safety of the Welshman's grip.
"Woah, calm down, Coop. Hey, Sam! Calm the fuck down!" he ordered the other man over the steady staccato of gunfire as he frantically pawed at him, searching for injury. "It hit the plate, see? It hit the plate," Mick repeated before gesturing to the piece of metal that protected his chest. "I might get a nasty bruise but other than that, I'm fine."
In truth, the bullet to the chest, while stopped by his Kevlar, had still been sorely felt. The force had been such that it had taken his breathe away and Mick was sure a bruise was going to be the least of it – if the painful pull across his chest at every breath was anything to go by, he suspected that he had, at the very least, cracked a rib or two.
The shoulder wound he had neglected to mention to Sam was unfortunately affecting his ability to wield his assault rifle as effectively as he would like, but he could still shoot. With them being as outnumbered as they were, being able to shoot was an imperative.
"Rawson?" Manx shouted, and Mick didn't need to know the man well to hear the question in his voice.
"I'm fine, Captain," the sniper assured his OC. "A little beat up but nothing I can't cope with for now." Sometimes he hated being forced to voice his weaknesses in front of other soldiers, whether he knew them or not – he would not deny that every man had his pride and he more than most when it came to his occupation, but confessing to any inability, especially when out in the field, often felt like questioning any right he had towards soldiering, full stop.
However, he also knew, through experience as well as through common sense, that everyone needed to know their limits and their capabilities. Following the Hollywood route of brushing it off might lead to a more tense cinematic experience but in real life it usually just lead to bigger problems further down the road, especially when it was not just his own life that depended on his well-being.
"We need to get moving!" Danny shouted out, frustration in every syllable – he was a spotter and there was nothing to spot due to the poor visibility afforded them by the location.
"We're going to have to leave the bodies," Manx said, turning to Wilkes. "We're going to struggle with the injured as it is, and we can't spare any hands to haul the dead further into the mountains – we're going to need at least four men, unburdened, to cover our retreat."
"I understand," Wilkes nodded, his trembling voice on the verge of breaking. It was his first real tour in a position of authority and he felt like every life lost was weighing down on his shoulders.
"We'll come back for them asap, Wilkes – we'll try to see to it that they make it home, but we can't do it at the expense of the living. Rawson, I want you on point," Manx ordered the Welshman.
"I reckon I'd be better off helping to move one of the injured," Mick said quietly, gesturing to his bloodied shoulder. "I can shoot if need be but it would make more sense to have a full-bodied soldier out in front."
"Understood," the Captain nodded tersely. If he had a choice, he would have preferred Rawson on point every time, his training as a sniper meant that he scanned the area with a little more efficiency than most and his intelligence and assessing gaze had not yet let him down. "Wallcroft?"
"On it," the spotter agreed.
Manx grabbed the two other SAS men and set about sabotaging anything and everything that could be useful to the enemy. Before they destroyed the only working radio in the Humvees, they called in their current position, gave the coordinates for their immediate destination and updated the status report. Benn was carrying a portable radio and a satellite phone had been secured from Cooper's affects, so they were not wholly without comms.
All available equipment was stowed away in every pouch and pocket, secured to every strap and belt. Benn and Harrigan ran to the small well and filled up every canteen while those Marines still on their feet provided cover fire.
Some of the lesser injured had volunteered to fight through their own pain to move those who were unable to move unaided, freeing up the healthy to provide cover fire and keep the enemy from taking down the rest of them.
"Come on, Coop," Mick said, trying to haul the barely conscious man to his feet, only to find the other man collapsing half way down. "Shit!" Mick muttered to himself – he was going to have to carry the man. He was fit and strong, current injuries aside, but Coop was a tall man and a broad man and it was going to take a hell of a lot of effort to get him anywhere. However, they didn't have much choice. Too many were injured and with the other members of the SAS troop acting as cover-guard Mick was left as the only one available.
Despite being wary about just how far he could carry Coop, he was silently grateful that the injured man would be in his charge – not only did he want to help and protect his friend, but he also felt as though it was a small step towards somehow repaying the man for the kindness and concern that had always been so forthcoming over the years. Mick might not understand why Coop seemed to give a crap about him, and sometimes he found the man's concern for a fully-grown, highly-trained soldier as amusing as it could be irritating, but he couldn't deny that he was grateful for it nonetheless.
"Ok, Coop," Mick sighed heavily as he readied himself for the weight and the pain that would inevitably follow. "This is going to hurt me just as much as it's going to hurt you, so at least do me the courtesy of not throwing up down my back, ok mate?"
He didn't expect any response and so got to work on heaving Sam into a comfortable grip. The man's weight immediately pulled at his shoulder wound and the sudden deep breath he took told him that yes, he did indeed have, at the very least, one cracked rib.
"Bollocks," he spitted out through gritted teeth. "We're going to need to go over the finer points of duck and cover, I'm not sure I'll agree to haul your arse through the mountains a second time."
"Mick?" came a confused voice from behind, muffled by Mick's back.
"Hey Coop," Mick breathed out heavily as he started walking over the rough terrain, boxed in between Danny at the front, with a few more able-bodied soldiers stumbling wearily alongside him, and Benn and Harrigan who were bringing up the rear. Manx and Wilkes kept working their way up and down the line, offering help when and where it was needed.
It was slow work, but they eventually found themselves with a little distance between them and the Taliban-infested village. They had found a small crevice in the landscape and worked on getting the injured to the back while Wilkes and Manx set about marking out the cover positions.
"Here we go," Mick said as he gently set Sam down against the wall. "Don't try and tell me that I never take you anywhere nice," he joked.
"Mick?" Sam asked sluggishly, awareness seeping back in and with it a sense of panic at the sheer amount of disorientation he felt.
"Got it in one, mate," Mick replied with a smile, making sure to put his face fully within Sam's view before returning his attention to his friend's injury.
"You're bleeding," Sam managed to choke out, fingers reaching towards the blood that was pooling around Micks left shoulder.
"Thank fuck it's the other shoulder this time, hey? Not sure my right shoulder could take another battering," Mick joked, desperate to make light of his condition in an effort to get his friend's panic under control, but Sam continued to paw at him with a lack of co-ordination and his eyes struggling to focus on the man in front of him. "Hey, easy tiger, buy me a drink first, eh?"
"Need to…" Sam trailed off, swallowing around his dry throat with a greater degree of difficulty than he was used to, and giving up on speech when he realised that he was getting nowhere.
"I'll see to it as soon as I've got you sorted, so the quicker you start cooperating, Coop, the sooner I'll take a look at it," Mick promised, realising that Sam's concern for him was more prominent than it was for his own injury.
As soon as Mick had bandaged up his shoulder with a strip of his t-shirt, a great deal of difficulty, and a whole hell of a lot of cussing in Welsh, Sam seemed to relax somewhat, and Mick was, while not entirely happy, certainly confident enough to leave him in the care of the other injured soldiers.
He stood up and moved back to his gear, assembling his sniper rifle as he watched over the opening, quietly getting an update from his OC. He liked Manx – the Isle of Man native could be pretty acerbic in his manner and enjoyed putting the FNGs through the wringer, but once they had proved themselves capable, they were treated like an equal, with respect and camaraderie.
"Mick?" a sleepy voice called for his attention.
"Hey, Coop," the Welshman smiled at his friend as he moved back into view, his rifle assembled. "I won't be far but I reckon this," he gestured to his rifle, "might just keep the wolves at bay a little longer. Manx tells me that the cavalry is making short work of the Taliban – there are a lot of them, but apparently not enough to take on half of 1st Battalion, and they're running scared for the hills. Of course, that means they could end up running this way…" Mick trailed off.
It perhaps wasn't the most comforting of notions, given the circumstances, but he wasn't going to lie to Coop, not even as semiconscious as the man was – he owed the man the truth, at the very least and more besides, certainly more than he could ever put into words.
"I'll be sitting pretty for a while up high, but I don't imagine it'll be too long before reinforcements reach us and I'll come down and get you, then you'll be out of here in no time. Might even get back to base in time for chow – I'm sure that'll work as an incentive if nothing else will," he laughed.
"Thanks," Sam whispered, as he battled the encroaching darkness.
"For what?" Mick wondered.
"For coming, for carrying me, for taking a bullet for me…" Sam listed. "We're going to have words about that last one, though," he promised.
"I'm sure we will," Mick laughed. "But for now…" he gestured towards to opening with his rifle, his intent clear. "When your leg is better, then you can try and kick my arse."
"Will kick your ass," Sam promised with a mumble.
"In Kali, no doubt," Mick agreed. "Surprisingly enough, some obscure Filipino martial art is not exactly ranked very highly on the British Army's training regime. But, I daresay for the rest of it…"
"Yeah, yeah, soldier boy – we'll see," Sam laughed gently. "But seriously," Sam struggled to remain upright as his exhaustion once more took a hold. "Thank you, for everything."
"Any time, Coop," Mick promised, all trace of amusement gone as he contemplated just how much he was willing to lay his life on the line for his friend. He knew a lot of people and was on friendly terms with many of them, but in reality he only called a few of them 'friend', and Coop had long since earned that title – there wasn't much he wouldn't do for a friend. "Any time."
"Hey, Mick?" Digger asked cautiously, keeping his tone low and trying to avoid anyone overhearing him. "You may want to head over to C Barracks – your friend, Cooper, was getting into it with Major Hardy. I think the sandstorm is the only thing keeping the rest of camp watching this little sideshow they seem to have going on. Whatever it is, it's not looking good."
"Thanks, mate," Mick said quietly, quickly making his excuses to the rest of the men and taking his half-eaten dinner to the other end of the mess tent before rushing off towards C Barracks.
Major Hardy was as slavish to the regulations as you could get – for the Recon Marine there was nothing that his Officer's Handbook couldn't solve and if the problem couldn't be found in those pages then it clearly wasn't a real problem. He'd made his name largely off the skill of the men serving under him and he'd unfairly borne most of the credit. Sam had often worked alongside the man and clearly thought little of him, but Mick couldn't recall there being any real contention between the two.
Sam had been embedded with the Marines for as long as Mick had known him, but his expertise in interrogation and profiling had seen him move between all three branches of the military and beyond the limits of the US Forces. The Joint Special Operations Taskforce had often asked for Cooper, his proficiency as well as his discretion was well known to the Allied Forces in both the Iraqi deserts and the Afghani mountains.
Mick knew that the job had been slowly eating away at the man, that countless interrogations, some of them conducted in a more than questionable manner, were beginning to cause Sam to doubt not just his role in the military but his very humanity.
The former profiler's introverted thinking frequently led to some incredibly interesting philosophical debates, but more often than not Cooper's rationale seemingly allowed himself to believe that he was a fundamentally flawed individual with little to no chance of redemption, and the difficulties he faced in his latest job did little to improve his self-image.
Mick sped through the blustery night, sand pelting his face in the high winds and reducing visibility as he tried to keep his eyes down and somewhat protected. He was literally tripping up over the guy lines supporting the large tent that made up C Barracks before he caught sight of his friend and heard Hardy shout, 'you'd better hope God is listening to your prayers, Cooper, because the Marine Corps sure as shit isn't going to!' before storming off. Sam glared after Major Hardy but otherwise made no effort to move and take himself out of the harsh conditions.
"What's wrong? Has something happened?" Mick asked frantically having caught the end of the confrontation and seen the anger that was coursing through Sam's body, pulsating in its intensity.
"You could say that," Sam replied bitterly, his attention still focused on the retreating Major, his silhouette disappearing into the sandstorm. He spared a quick glance at his friend before tersely explaining: "I punched Walker."
"Walker? You punched a General? Are you out of your fucking mind?" Mick demanded incredulously. He'd always known Sam to be relatively calm and easy-going, with a slow-burning fuse and a desire to find more peaceful ways of settling any differences.
"I know," Sam sighed heavily, releasing a deep breath as his actions finally caught up with him. He started walking, Mick hot on his heels – there was a supply tent nearby that rarely saw anyone venture inside, he wanted to get out of the storm and more than that, he didn't feel like making another public spectacle of himself.
"You know?" Mick was getting angry, furious that his friend seemed relatively indifferent to his possible fate. "You punched a two-star General, Coop. You're not a civilian out here, you're in the goddamn military and there are real and severe consequences for your actions!"
"I know!" Sam shouted back, his tenuous grip on his temper having once again fallen by the wayside.
"Then why? What the hell were you thinking?" Mick demanded, quieter but no less intense.
"I don't know," Sam shook his head.
"Don't give me that bullshit, Coop. Why the fuck did you hit him?"
"Because he's the son of a bitch who…" Sam trailed off, unready to confess the truth to his friend, unwilling to risk seeing the condemnation in his eyes.
"Who what?" Mick probed.
"He's the one who green-lighted my interrogation on Armir," the older man finally confessed. "He's the one who ordered the use of enhanced interrogation techniques and didn't even have the balls to oversee the whole thing."
"Look, Walker's an arsehole, no doubt," Mick said plainly, "but even Generals have their orders, Coop – truthfully, the man who green-lighted your interrogation is probably sitting pretty back in DC, and I doubt if he'll ever even hear about this little incident. Christ, I doubt if he'll lose one minute of sleep over it all.
"You were the one who tried to give me a lecture about orders not too long ago, about how it's a soldier's duty to follow those orders – well, like it or not, you're in the military, too, Coop. You left the FBI and you signed up to the military – being embedded with the Marines in the Intel. Corps doesn't give you the right to ignore the same rules that the rest of us have to worry about. Now you may not be a fully-fledged soldier, granted, but you still have your orders and you still have to follow them, and if you can't then you should think about leaving the military, but sure as shit not by getting yourself court-martialled!"
"I haven't felt so out of control since…since I don't even know how long," Sam confessed, shaking his head in dismay. "I was just so angry. I've done things in this war that I never thought I'd be capable of doing – that I've done it with the full backing of my government is not much of a consolation. 'Enhanced interrogation'?" he scoffed. "The military sure as hell like dressing it up, don't they?" Sam was almost incredulous in his disbelief.
"You mean the modern-day versions of 'resettlement and 'special installations' don't do it for you?" Mick asked sarcastically, referring to the Nazi Party euphemisms from the Second World War that hid the dark truths of concentration camps and gas chambers. He was depressed at seeing the truth of his friend's words – 'enhanced interrogation' was just another term for torture...torture sanctioned by the government, maybe, but torture nonetheless.
"Look, you need to find Walker and you need to apologise…" Mick started before Cooper cut across him.
"I will not grovel before that son of a bitch and apologise to him!" Sam stated angrily. "Even if that asshole isn't the one who decided that water-boarding a suspect is ok because we're not on US soil and Armir isn't a US citizen, he's still the same son of a bitch who passed that order along.
"Don't pretend you've always passed orders down the line, Mick," Sam whispered knowingly, furiously, his tone dark and unforgiving, his anger fuelling him on. "I'm not a fully-fledged soldier, you're right about that, but I've been out here for years now and I know how things work. I've heard the RoE's being reduced down to everyone being declared hostile and I've heard CO's refuse to pass that order down the ranks because they thought it was bullshit, because they knew what the consequences could be!
"Well, Walker's a two-star General and he, of all people, should understand consequences, and if he didn't before, well, then his broken nose is sure as hell going to remind him of it now!" Sam finished furiously.
Mick just closed his eyes in despair as he finally knew Sam's actions. He didn't know whether or not Sam understood the full ramifications of his behaviour, or if he simply didn't care while his blood was up, but Mick knew that once things settled down the older man would be furious with himself, for losing control in such an explosive manner if nothing else.
Sam sighed heavily and flopped down on a box of MRE's. "I can't…I can't keep ignoring my conscience and follow these orders, Mick," Sam stated almost brokenly, the strong emotion clear in the tremble of his voice. "I've never thought of myself as a naïve man but I swear to God that I never expected to be involved with the type of shit they have me doing over here."
Mick didn't know what to say to that – it had been naïve of the otherwise intelligent man to think that he wouldn't be asked to cross any lines in his job. Counter-interrogation was not exactly a career-path that invited the soft and the cuddly – it was the legal version of an enforcer for the criminal underground and most involved in the actual questioning did not hold onto their innocence for long.
Sam's skills as a profiler meant that he had rarely needed to resort to the more creative techniques that many others relied upon, but all too often the men in charge simply didn't have the patience for the long play – the intelligence held by the men they captured usually only allowed for a small window of opportunity, which made getting that information as quickly as possible the main aim. Mick didn't like it and he didn't condone it but he also couldn't deny that some of the intelligence gathered from the use of 'enhanced interrogation techniques' had saved his life, the lives of his friends and the lives of countless civilians.
"It's a shitty situation, Coop, no doubt, but there are better ways of going about it. Walker's a glory-seeking arsehole but he's not unreasonable – you need to talk to him, Coop," Mick asked, a pleading note to his voice. "There is no way this is going to go unanswered, especially not with that prick, Hardy, involved. But you can at least steer it away from fully-fledged career suicide.
"I've been at this a while, Coop, and I've known one or two men who ended up with a dishonourable discharge, and they find it next to impossible to do anything with that staining their jacket. If you want to go back to the FBI…" Mick shook his head, trailing off, the words unnecessary – a DD had never helped anyone in the job market, let alone anyone looking to work in law enforcement.
"What makes you think I want to go back to the FBI?" Sam asked curiously.
"You reek of unfinished business, mate," the sniper laughed mirthlessly. "Look, this is clearly not what you want to be doing, and you're a smart guy with a hell of a résumé, even if most of it has to be redacted, but you have options, Coop. There are a whole hell of a lot of things you could do after the Military, but not with a DD on your record."
"So you want me to apologise to that asshole?" Sam asked the incredulity finally ebbing away as his adrenaline started to die down and reality set in.
"I think you have to swallow your pride long enough and do what you have to do – it's not going to be easy and it's not going to be something you're ever going to want to think about again, but Walker will likely let it slide – only if you talk to him, though, if you explain and if you apologise."
"I'm not sure I can do that," Sam shook his head sadly.
"Well, Coop," Mick started quietly but firmly. "It sounds to me like you've had enough…that you've had more than enough. If that's the case, then you need to get out. You're not under contract, you have no obligations here. Leave now while there is still enough of you left to recognise."
"You think I'm that far off the rails already?" Sam asked, half amused, half confused and entirely convinced that he wasn't really ready to hear the answer.
"You're not off the rails, mate," Mick shook his head sadly. "And I'm not talking about how others view you – I'm talking about you! You can't let this job destroy you, but it is, isn't it? You've been getting more withdrawn these past few years, angry and bitter at the whole situation. Military life is hard on everyone, over here and back at home, and the demands of the job can sometimes be beyond the unimaginable, yours more so than most, and the cost is too much for some people.
"But there is a life outside the military and if you're at the stage where you either don't believe it, or can't believe it, then you need to leave, you need to find some way to remember how to live again. Go out to the pub, play a sport, buy a dog, hell…take up painting, just do something because you want to, because you like it, because it makes you happy.
"This job, it's not making you happy, in fact, right now you are perhaps the most miserable son of a bitch I know. Whatever it is that makes you think you have something to atone for, being here is just making that worse, and while I like working with you, as a friend I've got to tell you that you need to get the hell out of here and find something else to do, something that isn't going to eat away at you like this job is doing.
"You're a smart guy, Coop and you have options. You did a lot with the FBI, and you did most of it without a gun, without military-style enhanced interrogation techniques and without a uniform – that's a pretty unique skill set. You want to do something good, then go back to that.
"Bollocks," Mick muttered, shaking his head fiercely as he drew in a deep breath. "Ok, so I don't really know if all that rambling crap made any sense, but all I'm really trying to say is that you don't need to be over here to make a difference."
"Thanks," Sam laughed a little at his friend's unease. Mick might be a natural at reading people and their intentions, but talking about it all was a very different matter. Ask him just about anything and he can give clear and cohesive statements, unless it ventured into the personal, then he'd react in one of several ways: sometimes he'd stutter and start, clearly uncomfortable with the attention, and other times he'd look at you with a mix of horror and accusation, as though you'd just asked him to castrate himself for fun. Occasionally he'd glare at you and promise violence but usually he'd deflect it with humour and sarcasm or some ribald comment that was clearly meant to deflect from the original question.
When it came to Sam, Mick seemed to have a way of cutting through the bullshit and getting right to the point, and no matter how hard Sam tried he could rarely hide anything from the younger man.
"Well, I guess I have a General to suck up to," Sam said with a heavy sigh. "God, I hate it when you're right."
"Guess you really should leave then," Mick said cheekily, giving an easy grin once the anxiety about his friend's situation had somewhat abated. "Because I'm always right."
"Sure you are," Sam said, shaking his head, his eyes lit up with mirth. "Maybe I really should get out, apparently long-time service leads to a rather delusional state of mind."
"Well, I can't deny that," Mick agreed. "I'm friends with you, after all."
"You know even if I do leave, I'm not going to leave you alone, right?" Sam asked earnestly.
"I know," Mick confirmed, and he did, but it was still nice to hear the words. "Couldn't get rid of you if I tried."
"Nope," Sam laughed. "Not even then."
Not much left to go now. Let me know what you think and if you spot any mistakes – thanks!
Chinook – a common military helicopter for troop transport, especially used in higher altitudes and more mountainous regions.
C130 – a very big, very versatile plane – it can be used for troop transport, medical transport and cargo transport. It can also be fitted out as a gunship that can monitor and assist ground forces from a safe distance – these things can pack a serious wallop!
The Taliban – an Islamic fundamentalist group that started in Afghanistan, (although there are now factions throughout the Middle-East) they follow a strict and highly controversial interpretation of Sharia Law.
Psy. Ops. – Psychological Operations – a military approach that focuses more on winning people over to their side through psychological means rather than military might.
IED – Improvised Explosive Device – usually a road side bomb that is disguised in some shape or form.
RPG – Rocket Propelled Grenade.
MRE – Meal, Ready to Eat – military ration packs that contain a whole meal. Usually taste like crap!
50 Cal. – a fifty-calibre is a very big gun! Often machine guns mounted on vehicles or used for perimeter defences.
SAS – Special Air Service – British Army Special Forces, one of the best in the world.
UKSF – United Kingdom Special Forces – comprises of the SAS, SBS, Paras 1st Battalion and several more.
CO/OC – Commanding Officer/Officer in Command.
Spec. Ops. – Special Operations – often covert missions performed by Special Forces.
POW – Prisoner of War.
FNG – Fucking New Guy – as with all things military, there is usually a bad word/phrase for just about everything, especially the newbies!
Black Watch – an infantry battalion of the Royal Regiment of Scotland that is highly regarded. It was fused with other groups during 2006, but due to their impressive reputation, retained the name Black Watch.
Comms. – Communications.
Enhanced Interrogation Techniques – includes waterboarding, food/water/sleep deprivation, beatings, prolonged stress positions and many more – basically, military language for government-backed torture.
RoEs – Rules of Engagement – a set of rules for the military that dictate how, when and where the use of force can be applied, and how much so. Changes can frequently be made in the field and can sometimes lead to confusion.