Crossfire Read Free Page A

hope your next appearance
wouldn't end with them slicing off your head
online.
    The chain gun ceased fire. The Kingsmen
swarmed down into the wadi.
    Dom made to follow, but I grabbed him and
pulled him on to his knees. Another flurry of
illume kicked off over the town and the cannon
opened up again. I had to scream into his ear:
'They said not to go forward until they call us!
Wait. Let them get on with it.'
    The Kingsmen vanished for a few seconds in
the dead ground of the riverbed, before reappearing
on the far bank, screaming and
shouting all sorts of Scouse shit they probably
didn't even understand themselves.
    They kicked their way through a series of old
wooden doors and into whatever chaos lay the
other side.

2
    0805 hrs
    The sun had risen enough to chuck out a bit of
heat, but not enough to coax me out of the oversized
fleece I had on over my body armour. I ran
my tongue over my furred-up teeth and gave my
greasy, stubbled face a rub.
    Dom and Pete sat among steel ammo boxes,
day sacks and general wagon shit the other side
of the idling Warrior. Pete fucked about on his
Mac laptop, editing the bulletin Dom had made
during the attack. He wasn't one of those bunker
journos who gave their action-packed report
from the safety of a Green Zone balcony. And
that was my big problem. I spent every waking
hour either pulling him down or away from
someone or something that could kill him.
    Paul, one of the recce platoon, was top cover
with a Minimi; he had to stand between us with
his head and shoulders sticking out through the
open mortar hatch. Sand and all sorts showered
down each time he moved.
    I brushed some desert off my fleece. It got cold
out here at night and I was a bit of a lizard. I liked
to keep warm, even if it meant wearing something
Pete described as the colour of shite after a
bad vindaloo. I hadn't got it from an outdoors
store; I always ended up throwing my kit away
every few weeks because it got so minging, so I'd
treated myself to a trip to Oxfam. Three and a
half quid as opposed to thirty; a bargain whatever
the colour.
    Last night had produced an insurgent body
count of eighteen, at a cost of two wounded
Kingsmen. Now a Challenger and our three
recce-platoon Warriors had been tasked with
setting up a vehicle checkpoint on the eastern
road out of town to see what got caught in the
net.
    Looking out of the open rear door, I could see
the wadi the guys had run through during last
night's attack. It was littered with carrier-bags,
dog shit, drinks cans, water-bottles; all kinds of
trash that wouldn't be washed downstream until
next year when the rains came.
    A pack of scabby old dogs were kept at bay by
the heat blasting from the grilles of the
Challenger's massive turbo-charged diesel
engine. Like the Warriors', its hull and tracks
were caked with mud and dust. No call for spit
and polish here: they were fighting a war. The
bar armour surrounding the lower hull and
tracks looked like a series of buckled
and scorched farm gates. That was because it was
doing its job, deflecting RPGs.
    Now it was light, I couldn't see too much flame
from the blazing oil wells, just thick black pillars
of smoke on the horizon. It was going to be a
long time before this place was stable enough for
the conglomerates to come and start sucking out
black gold.
    The Challenger pointed its big fuck-off barrel
at the town like it was giving the locals the finger. Come and have a go, if you think you're hard enough .
It wouldn't take a genius to get the message.
    A helmet jutted from its turret. Tank crews
wore dark green covers to blend in with their
vehicles; light desert camouflage would make a
perfect target for a sniper or any half-decent shot
who'd bothered to zero his weapon.
    The Kingsmen had five VCPs covering all the
roads in and out of town. After last night's attack
they dominated the area. At first light they'd
started searching and questioning every male of
fighting age. Notionally that was fourteen to
sixty. The reality