Devil’s Harvest by Andrew Brown

relented.
    ‘Fragment from the Hellfire blast. The last hit from the Reaper UAV.’ Richards leant across and placed a muscular finger on a small rectangle towards the right of the picture. Bartholomew noted how closely he cut his nails, the skin pink at the edges. ‘Could be part of the target,’ Richards went on. ‘But the regularity of the fragment suggests it’s pre-manufactured. We think it may be a part of the body of the delivery system itself.’
    Bartholomew sat down and picked up the photograph, staring once more at the tiny black shape, willing it into comprehension. His stomach ached and he was in no mood for games. Richards was deliberately talking in riddles.
    ‘Part of the delivery system. So what?’
    ‘Well, it may be nothing, of course. A weak spot in the target, a loose piece of metal on the ground in the blast zone. But the regular shape is a concern. It may be a large fragment as a result of a weakness in the warhead itself, but you were present when we tested this …’
    Bartholomew recalled the day he had observed a test to check the efficiency of the self-destructing air-to-ground missile. The missile had screamed through the air and slammed into the test site target, the lithium core superheating in the blast and reducing the entire guidance section to a lump of metal. He remembered how surprised he had been at the melted ball, still warm from the blast, all that had remained of the missile. It was extraordinary that all that heat and power could dissipate so quickly, leaving no trace, save for the devastation of its surroundings.
    Richards had paused for dramatic effect. He seemed to be enjoying himself at his superior’s expense. ‘However, George’ – the startling use of his first name was a clear message that the usual rules did not apply – ‘we think that this might be the cover of the rear control access panel. Its shape suggests this rather than a sheared portion of the missile body.’
    Bartholomew was still looking at the picture in puzzlement. ‘The rear access panel to the control section?’
    ‘Yes. And George, that access panel has identifiable markings on it.’ Richards seemed almost smug about this disclosure.
    ‘“Identifiable markings”? What the hell does that mean? Identifiable markings! This is supposed to be a secret fucking stealth weapon!’
    The ache had changed, suddenly dropping to an intense pressure in his lower bowel. The word ‘identifiable’ had somehow attached itself to the inner lining of his intestine. The gravity of the situation descended: a self-destructing interception missile launched from a United Kingdom Reaper UAV had successfully eliminated a citizen of a sovereign state in respect of which his country had not declared any hostilities, leaving identifiable shrapnel in its wake.
    ‘For God’s sake, Richards,’ he said. ‘It’s a goddamn assassination machine. And you’re telling me it has left some fucking control panel behind!’
    ‘Finance insists that everything has a serial number on it.’ The smugness had gone, and Richards looked rather glummer now. ‘They won’t sign off on anything unless they can trace it to the asset register, even if it’s “off the books”.’
    ‘This is what happens when you leave war to the fucking bureaucrats.’
    The room was claustrophobic and seemed unnaturally hot, the skin around his neck and forehead suddenly damp. His anus had started twitching, and he groaned inadvertently, which Richards misconstrued as the air marshal’s appreciation of the potentially disastrous occurrence that had transpired.
    ‘Indeed, Air Marshal …’ Richards’s false deprecation was cut short as Bartholomew rose and made for the door. He had the clear sensation of warm water sloshing in his rectum, waiting for his sphincter to give just the slightest gap for it to spurt out in a final catastrophic moment of humiliation. He hobbled as fast as he could, ignoring the startled expression of the secretary