Fortress Read Free Page B

famous among the other nationalities for doing strange things.
    Beyond the wire, the lights of the airfield shone with a ghostly glow. Even at night they appeared to shimmer, the heat of the day still rising. Below they could make out the sharp outlines of the Ospreys, the Huey gunships, Cobras and Harrier jump jets, loaded with rockets and bombs. These machines – unassailable, so the enemy believed – were their targets.
    Ayna saw it first. Three flashes a few metres to the left of the gate. He tugged Isa’s tunic and Isa squeezed the forearm of the Leader.
    Who is he, the man on the other side? Ayna had asked. How is he our brother if he is with the enemy?
    We have many brothers everywhere , came the Leader’s reply. They are biding their time, waiting to act. As well as courage, they have great patience, which is why we will win and the glory will be ours .
    Now they advanced again, in twos, as they had been instructed, like tired soldiers after a long day. But none of them was tired. Their hearts were beating fiercely. What they all knew was that this was their last march, and that the end would be soon – and spectacular.

5
    Tom set a course for the gym near the perimeter of the flight line. He jogged down a street lined with rows of Portakabins occasionally interrupted by the odd ISO container. The pervasive whiff of aviation fuel hung in the air along with a thin clouding of dust. He’d known bases of all kinds around the world, but none on this scale. This was a vast fortress capable of handling an entire invasion force. Its sheer size alone should have been enough to get the message across to the enemy about who was boss round here. And despite all the talk about a phased withdrawal, construction was still going on, the runways being extended, rumour had it, so B-52s could be based there in the event of war with Iran.
    Yet Tom felt its very enormity, along with its arsenal of weaponry, created a false sense of security. Last week they had deployed to a forward patrol base, under canvas; no air-conditioned gym, just a desert rose to piss in and furniture improvised from wooden pallets and the wire frames of the Hescos. At least you knew what was at stake out in the field. He preferred it to this prefabricated metal city in the desert, a giant, very costly white elephant that the bean-counters in Whitehall and Washington longed to be rid of. But despite the politicians’ proclamations of ‘mission accomplished’ and the start of a phased handover to the Afghan National Army, to Tom it didn’t look like this long war was anywhere near done.
    A moonless sky hung over the camp, the moisture in the air reflecting the dull orange glow that came from the floodlights. At the end of the street of Portakabins a wide open space bordered on the USAF maintenance compound. To the left, about fifty metres away, was the South Gate, and straight ahead the gym, about another three minutes if he upped his pace. A small detachment of troops crossed the end of the street and turned towards the airfield. Just from their size Tom could tell they were ANA. Generations of deprivation and the habitual lack of decent nutrition had kept their average height several inches below that of the other nationalities. Once they had cleared he saw another figure in front of the gym, bareheaded, carrying a torch but no obvious weapon. The figure lit a cigarette, then lifted his head to blow a long plume of smoke up into the night.
    Qazi.
    That morning Tom had witnessed him being fêted by the US camp commander, Major General Carthage, in front of a gathering that included a number of press – quite a large number.
    ‘You are looking at the future, gentlemen.’ Carthage, towering over Qazi, patted him on the shoulder in a way that made Tom squirm, as if he was his pet. Qazi stood expressionless, with a faraway look in his eyes that revealed nothing.
    ‘Second Lieutenant Amhamid Qazi, like many in the ANA, enlisted out of patriotism and