Between Ghosts by Garrett Leigh
After dinner, Connor retrieved his gear from the bunkroom and followed Wedge and the boys to their makeshift camp. By then, Marc had rejoined them.
“All right?” Wedge said.
Marc nodded. “Squared away.”
Connor waited for either man to elaborate. They didn’t, so he unrolled his sleeping bag beside Wedge and settled down with the rest of them. “Do you know where we’re going yet? Nat said we wouldn’t be at the Kuwait FOB for long.”
“A day or so, probably.” Bobs kept his attention on the pot of tea he was heating over a hexy block. “Give us time to get properly briefed and replenish our kit. We’re going to be on the ground a while this time. Basra’s a bloody mess.”
“Basra?” Relief-tinged disappointment surged through Connor that they weren’t heading north to Mosul. “Have you been there before?”
“Nope.” Bobs dumped tea bags and sugar in the pot. “That’s why Nat’s on lockdown with the spooks. Getting the lay of the land, so to speak.”
“Spooks? That’s intelligence, right?”
Wedge snorted. “Did you swallow a feckin’ glossary before you came out here?”
“Er, maybe.” Connor didn’t care to admit how many military books he’d poured over before signing up to train with the reserve unit in Hereford the previous year. Or, that even then he’d often found himself bemused by the crude slang flying around the barracks. “Am I going to need a translator?”
“Nah, you’ll get by. Might want to brush up on your Arabic, though.” Bobs doled out hot, sweet tea. “Nat’s getting a squaddie from the Scots to guard your arse and that lot don’t know shit.”
“I’m fluent in Arabic, actually,” Connor said. “I lived in Dubai until I was nine.”
“Yeah?” Wedge raised his head from the battered pair of desert boots he was using as a pillow. “Did you go to one of them posh international schools?”
“For a bit. Didn’t do me much good when I wound up at a Salford comprehensive.”
Wedge chuckled. “Yeah, but still, you’re lucky you didn’t turn out a right wanker.”
Connor took the communal sniggers, relieved that they hadn’t pegged him for a tosser just yet. He lay back on the hard floor and tried not to notice the concrete grinding his joints, or the kink his rolled-up-sweatshirt-pillow gave his neck.
A little while later, a shadow darkened his vision. Nat. Connor chanced a grin, despite the tingle in his bones. “Okay?”
Nat dropped a package on Wedge’s chest. “Will be when I get this lot safely off the ground. Wedge, sort that shit before we leave, yeah?”
And with that, he was gone again. Connor looked to Wedge, who had hardly cracked an eye open. “Where does Nat sleep?”
Wedge shrugged and hauled himself up. “He’s a funny fucker sometimes. Likes his own space when he can get it. Don’t worry. You’ll see plenty of his pretty face when we get down to business.”
“Pretty” wasn’t a word Connor expected to hear much over the next few weeks, so he found a grin as Wedge disappeared into the bustle of the air base and tried to apply “pretty” to Nat. Nope. Didn’t work. Nat’s gaze was too hard, his smirk too cynical. Connor drifted into a restless doze, certain that Nat Thompson was a man who’d seen too much, and chances were there was plenty more to come.
Despite feeling sure he’d be awake all night, Connor slept deeply and woke at 0300 to Bobs kicking his legs.
“Look lively, mate. Time to chip.”
Connor scrambled to his feet, noting that Wedge had returned.
“Morning,” Marc said.
Connor nodded. “Morning. Where’s Nat?”
“With the OC,” Marc said. “Got everything you need?”
“Er, think so.” Connor pointed to the Army-issue bag he’d bought in Hereford.
“Bet you haven’t got rubbers, though, ’ave ya?” Wedge tossed a box over his shoulder.
Connor caught it. Opened his mouth. Shut it. “Condoms?”
“Yep. Taking you over to the dark side, mate. Didn’t Nat tell you?”
Wedge’s expression was entirely serious. Connor swallowed. Fuck. Were these guys so perceptive that they’d already figured him out?
Marc stepped between them and punched Wedge’s arm. “Ignore him. Some of us carry johnnies for emergency water supplies. These are unlubricated and can hold up to a litre if you lose your canteen. I don’t think you’ll need them, but it doesn’t hurt to be prepared. Besides, you want the real story, right? Write what you see?”
Connor couldn’t argue with that, though it felt slightly at odds with Nat’s list of rules. He pocketed the rubbers and shouldered his bag. “Understood. Is everyone ready?”
“Looks that way.” Marc glanced around. “Wedge, you good? Bobs? Chris?”
The others grunted and gathered their own belongings, and they all left their make-do huddle with little fanfare.
The Chinook was waiting for them outside; the sight of it took Connor’s breath away. James had often talked about the giant helicopters as though they were no different than buses, but Connor could see this one was heavily armed. In the gloom of the early morning, it looked monstrous, and hard as he tried, he couldn’t picture James crawling up the ramp, machine gun in hand, weighed down with bullets and grenades. It didn’t fit with the man who’d loved nothing more than to roll around in the garden with the family dog, or fall asleep on the couch in front of Countdown on a weekday afternoon. Chris boarded the Chinook, and Connor tried to imagine James in his place.
He couldn’t do it.
“Regan! Hurry the fuck up!” Connor refocused—the team was already on the aircraft. He took a deep breath and jogged up the ramp. Wedge hauled him inside. “Don’t tell me you’re a feckin’ dawdler. We haven’t got time for that shit. Get your arse in that corner.”
“Sorry.” Connor scrambled into position and attempted to make himself as inconspicuous as possible. He’d figured there’d be plenty of room, but most of the space was taken up by equipment, leaving the team to crouch between boxes. “Where’s Nat?”
Marc threw Connor a pair of ear defenders. “Coming.”
Fair enough. Connor slipped the headset on and watched the ramp. It felt like days since he’d seen Nat last, but it had only been a matter of hours . . . hours when everyone else had eaten and slept. Connor wondered if Nat had found time to rest, then wondered why it seemed so important. Why Nat filled every thought that wasn’t occupied by James.
Movement caught his eye. Wedge stepped over Chris and jumped down the ramp. Bobs was closest, so Connor tapped him on the shoulder. “Where’s he going?”
“Fuck knows. Dickhead’s always bloody late.”
“And he called me dawdler?”
“He’s quick when it matters.” Bobs arched himself around a large box and took someone’s hand to help them aboard. “Easy, mate.”
Nat appeared at the top of the ramp. He looked around, clearly counting heads. “Where’s Wedge?”
Bobs shrugged. “Musta forgot something.”
“Fuck’s sake.” Nat met Connor’s gaze, before he turned and disappeared again. The eye contact was too brief for Connor to glean much, but even in the darkness of the Chinook’s belly, there was no denying the shadows marring Nat’s handsome features.
He’s tired. Connor’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip. He blamed the vibration of the aircraft’s engine as it rumbled to life, but as Nat reboarded the heli with a smirking Wedge in tow, he couldn’t silence the devil on his shoulder . . . the distracting pest that had found its voice the moment Connor had laid eyes on Nat.
I don’t want him to be tired.
The notion was unsettling. Attraction was the last emotion he’d expected to feel on this job. He’d prepared himself for the fear and adrenaline, and even the sadness that came with seeing James around every corner, but an unhealthy compassion for a man he barely knew? Nope. That wasn’t in the plans.
Connor gave himself an internal shake as the Chinook took off,
Bobs must have noticed Connor’s staring. He gestured for Conner to lift his ear defenders. “That’s how we kip around here, mate. Lean on whoever’s closest and snatch it when we can. Feel free to do the same. Sometimes flights like these will be all the chance you get.”
Connor couldn’t imagine how anyone could sleep on the noisy, cramped aircraft, but as the Chinook rumbled through the dawn, before long, he was the only one awake, watching the blackness zoom by as he awaited the next stage of their mission.
Four
Nat awoke with a jump. Where am I? Who’s with me? The familiar FOB came back to him in a split second, like it always did, but it didn’t make that brief, uncertain moment any less unsettling.
He shifted onto his back. Marc lay a few feet away, his favourite woollen hat pulled over his face. Chris was beside him, awake and scowling into a cup of tea. Nat caught his eye. “Okay, mate?”
Chris shrugged. “There’s no fucking kit in this shithole. Been searching all week for decent weapons, but no cigar. Might as well be going out there with wooden spoons.”
“We’ll make do. Wedge’ll sort it.”
Chris didn’t look convinced, and for once Nat didn’t blame him. Wedge’s poaching skills were legendary, but how could he filch what wasn’t there? The kit the Regiment had brought over when the war began was long gone—had been for yonks—and most guys had taken to buying their own off eBay.
Bloody eBay. Fuck’s sake. Nat grabbed his wash kit and headed for the building that housed the worst shower in the world, a tepid trickle of water that was never entirely clear. He was halfway through washing a week’s worth of grime away when the door opened. He didn’t bother to turn around. Army life had robbed him of inhibitions, and he didn’t give a witch’s tit who saw him naked anymore.
“Whoa, shit . . . sorry.”
Ha. Or maybe he did.
Nat forced himself to keep washing. “All right, mate? Come to clean up, or were you looking for me?”
“Um, yeah, sorry.” Connor cleared his throat. “Marc said it was my turn to shower. Didn’t mean to barge in on you in your birthday suit.”
Fucking Marc. He’d been shooting Nat mischievous glances since Regan had shuffled onto their base in Turkey, with his boyish grin and molten brown eyes . . .
Nat shut off the shower and snagged the threadbare hand towel he’d carried since the campaign in Iraq began. “If naked men bother you, you’re in for a rough ride. There isn’t much room for discretion here.”
“Naked men don’t bother me.”
Connor’s flat tone irked Nat, though he couldn’t say why. He turned to find Connor leaning on the wall . . . shirtless, and suddenly, it didn’t seem to matter.
Nat hastily grabbed his combat trousers and yanked them up his legs. He’d hadn’t slept much in the last few days, and the few hours he had snatched had been annoyingly filled with the image of Connor Regan jogging around the air base: damp, dark hair; broad shoulders; smooth skin . . . Nat hadn’t had a bloke turn his head in years, and now the hottest dude he’d ever seen was embedding with his crew for the foreseeable future? Fuck’s sake. Life just wasn’t fair.
“Nat?”
“What?”
Connor frowned.
Nat gathered himself and tried again. “Yeah?”
“Don’t suppose you’ve got a spare razor, have you?”
“A razor?”
“Yeah.” Connor pushed himself off the wall and ventured closer. “I lost mine in Turkey.”
Nat considered the two-day stubble beginning to darken Connor’s jaw. It looked good on him, too good for Nat to direct him to the supply store to fetch a new razor. “Leave it. We’re going to be out and about a lot in the field. Beards blend in better.”
Connor’s eyes gleamed, boyish and bold, and Nat didn’t have the heart to drown his excitement with his own bitter cynicism.
Instead, he pulled on his T-shirt and left Connor to shower. He was halfway to the OC’s office when he remembered he’d left his underwear on the bathroom floor. Damn it. He thought about going back for them, but the right time never came, and it turned out not to matter. They appeared the next day, folded neatly on top of Connor’s laptop, which had somehow found its way to the quiet corner Nat had made his temporary home.
Curious, Nat shoved his boxers into his kit and picked up the laptop. He considered it a moment, then opened it, reckoning whoever had left it on his bed had done so for a reason. A torn page of a notebook—Connor’s notebook—fell out.
* * *
Nat,
A roundup of this week’s festivities, hopefully dulled down to your liking. Don’t know when it will see the light of day, as I can’t find an internet connection anywhere, but here it is regardless. Password is jimblobseven.
Fill your boots,
Connor
* * *
Nat read the note twice, absorbing the dry tone that should’ve annoyed him. Fill your boots. It had been a while since Nat had heard that phrase, but the familiarity of it, even scrawled in Connor’s messy hand, hit him like a stone. For a long moment—too long—he was somewhere else, drifting in that hazy place where the shadows of the past warred with the promise of new ones to come.
Fuck’s sake. Nat crushed the note into a ball and tapped Connor’s password into the laptop. The article flashed up, and in need of a good distraction, Nat settled back and began to read. Most of it was, as Connor had promised, a doctored roundup of the last few days, starting from Connor’s arrival in Turkey and concluding with him going to bed beside “D” the night they’d arrived at the Kuwait base.
Nat read the dialogue exchanged between Connor and “F” and wondered who he’d been talking to. It wasn’t Marc, as Marc had been sucked into the base medical centre the moment they’d arrived, so it had to be one of the others. Nat scanned the conversation again and paused where Connor asked “F” about the much publicised—and failed—hunt for Saddam Hussein’s weapons of mass destruction.
F shrugged. “Seems to me we ended up practically nuking what turned out to be a bunch of two-bit knobbers launching fireworks off a camel’s back. Even now half the fellas on the ground don’t have a scooby who they’re fighting, much less why.”
“You do, though, don’t you?” I said. “You guys seem to know more about this country than anyone else I’ve met combined.”
“Some days, mate, some days. Can’t see the lie of the land if you don’t know how it got there. Q taught us well.”
Reason told Nat that “Q” was himself, so he applied simple coding logic. If each man had been given the third initial after his real one, “F” was . . . Chris? Really? Nat frowned. Chris wasn’t one for political commentary, or compliments, come to think of it. Q taught us well. Suddenly those long nights forcing his crew to huddle around maps and history books felt worthwhile.
Nat shut the laptop, pondering how often Connor Regan seemed to begin questions with “Why?” With his intense, probing gaze that left nowhere to hide, he sometimes seemed more like a damn shrink than a reporter. Nat set the computer aside and closed his eyes. He’d come to his quiet corner of the base to snatch some sleep before he briefed the team on their mission in Basra, but debating whether to allow Connor into that meeting was keeping him wired. He was still no closer to a decision, but exhaustion won over. He folded his hands behind his head and for the first time in days, fell asleep without Connor’s face for company.
The briefing room smelled like a changing room after Sunday morning football, like sweat, men,
“Officially, we’ll be there to shore up security,” Nat said, tapping his finger on the map they’d spread on the table. “The city’s effectively been in a stalemate for the last year. We don’t have enough troops on the ground and the militias have plugged the gap.”
“Don’t they always?” Wedge unwrapped his third packet of fags and offered them round. At this stage in the day, only Connor and Marc refused. “Trouble is, Basra’s got a population of 1.3 bloody million. How the fuck are we supposed to police that?”
“Doesn’t really matter, does it?” Bobs flicked ash into a plastic cup. “That shit’s going down the pan with or without our intervention. What we need to figure out is how to work around it to reach our target.”
“And that’s Abdullah Behrouz?”
Nat tapped the grainy photo of a heavy set Arab man, and threw a glance to the back corner where, against Nat’s better judgement, Connor had sat without his notebook, silent until now. “Yup. Behrouz has been on our hit list since ’02. He’s an Iraqi Bedouin, but he left for Iran ten years ago, then moved though Syria and Yemen, until he ended up in Kenya. We lost track of him for a while until he turned up in a Basra prison, and we have intelligence now to support him still being close by, commanding the cell responsible for the biggest guerrilla attacks in the city.”
“What was he in prison for?”
“Same as every other Bedouin. He had no papers.”
“Oh.”
Connor frowned, but Nat moved the conversation on to Behrouz’s latest activities.
“RPGs, IEDs, ambushing coalition troops.” Marc circled some locations on the map. “Four suicide bombs this month.”
“What about snipers?” Wedge said.