their four main rotor blades flickering above the long main profiles of the choppers. They were small as distant birds. The vibrating intensified and the Black Hawks grew and grew until they blocked out the clouds. Two of them hovered over a clearing to the south of the church, a field that had perhaps once belonged to a farm but now stood neglected. The wild grass and weeds parted like waves, shimmering as the two helicopters began their descent.
The choppers set down. Soldiers immediately debussed from both Black Hawks. Six men raced over to Golan and dragged him to the chopper to the right. Last I’ll ever see of that cunt, thought Gardner.
Two men approached Gardner from the other Black Hawk. The nearest man offered his hand. A face Gardner didn’t recognize, but the cold stare and grizzled expression told Gardner that he had yomped up the Pen-y-Fan mountain more than once in his life.
‘Let’s go,’ the man said. He had a Brummie accent thick as old boots, bulbous nose, brown eyes and ears that were doing a good impression of cauliflower buds. Gardner approached the Black Hawk with the two men, climbed inside and strapped himself into a seat. The second guy sat opposite him. Gardner studied him. He was scraggy, with a curly black beard that covered his jaw like webbing. His face had the hard lines and gritty texture of a man who lived his life in hard terrain. His muscles were toned rather than large. Gardner noted the CAR-15 Colt Commando assault rifle between his legs, the Benelli shotgun and spare 5.56x45mm NATO ammo clips on the spare passenger seat.
‘Name’s Weston,’ said the Brummie as the Black Hawk lifted off. It was a bumpy ride and Gardner felt his guts lurch. ‘This is Dooley,’ the pilot said, nodding at the bearded guy.
‘Gardner. You lads are Regiment?’
‘Twenty-three SAS, G Squadron,’ replied Dooley. The whirr of the rotor blades, like rolling thunder, meant he had to shout to be heard. ‘I’m told you used to be a Blade?’
‘Discharged two years ago.’
Dooley glanced at the nub where Gardner’s fake hand used to be.
‘Fucking hard luck, mate,’ he said in a Cockney accent. He grinned, revealing the worst teeth in Britain. A lot of Regiment lads sported awful gnashers, a result of months spent in the field with only basic hygiene. ‘But you’re back on the frontline now.’
Gardner’s heart pulsed. He felt the tension winding up in his spine as his body overdosed on adrenalin.
‘You picked a bad day for it.’
Too fucking right. Gardner kept the thought to himself.
They flew on to Istanbul.
19
1930 hours.
The Bosporus Bridge lit up like a glowstick across the sea. On the European side, glass-fronted towers clustered together in the Levent financial quarter. Sleek, shiny wet pebbles that looked down on the other side of the bridge. The Asian side was a tapestry of shabby mosques, slum dwellings and rickety roads.
The size of the city left Gardner breathless. It seemed to unfold into the horizon.
No time to enjoy the view. He ran his right hand over the newly attached prosthetic limb attached to his left arm. An on-board medic had patched up Gardner’s wounds and fitted him with a temporary limb, but it lacked the nerve-sensors and control of his old hand. Nothing more than a fancy-looking club.
At a cruising speed of 150 knots, equivalent to 173 mph, the Black Hawk had taken a little over two and a half hours to clear the 650 kilometres to Istanbul, flying at an altitude of 8,000 metres.
Seven thirty-four and Gardner was first to rappel down from the Black Hawk, using a Marlow rope connected to a figure-eight descender to slow his fall. He couldn’t fast-rope, not while he was essentially one-handed – he’d slam into the ground at speed and fuck his legs up.
His stomach muscles cramped on the drop. Twenty-four hours ago his V-neck shirt had been pristine white. Now it was grubby, black and brown-red. It chafed against his chest.
He dropped on
The choppers set down. Soldiers immediately debussed from both Black Hawks. Six men raced over to Golan and dragged him to the chopper to the right. Last I’ll ever see of that cunt, thought Gardner.
Two men approached Gardner from the other Black Hawk. The nearest man offered his hand. A face Gardner didn’t recognize, but the cold stare and grizzled expression told Gardner that he had yomped up the Pen-y-Fan mountain more than once in his life.
‘Let’s go,’ the man said. He had a Brummie accent thick as old boots, bulbous nose, brown eyes and ears that were doing a good impression of cauliflower buds. Gardner approached the Black Hawk with the two men, climbed inside and strapped himself into a seat. The second guy sat opposite him. Gardner studied him. He was scraggy, with a curly black beard that covered his jaw like webbing. His face had the hard lines and gritty texture of a man who lived his life in hard terrain. His muscles were toned rather than large. Gardner noted the CAR-15 Colt Commando assault rifle between his legs, the Benelli shotgun and spare 5.56x45mm NATO ammo clips on the spare passenger seat.
‘Name’s Weston,’ said the Brummie as the Black Hawk lifted off. It was a bumpy ride and Gardner felt his guts lurch. ‘This is Dooley,’ the pilot said, nodding at the bearded guy.
‘Gardner. You lads are Regiment?’
‘Twenty-three SAS, G Squadron,’ replied Dooley. The whirr of the rotor blades, like rolling thunder, meant he had to shout to be heard. ‘I’m told you used to be a Blade?’
‘Discharged two years ago.’
Dooley glanced at the nub where Gardner’s fake hand used to be.
‘Fucking hard luck, mate,’ he said in a Cockney accent. He grinned, revealing the worst teeth in Britain. A lot of Regiment lads sported awful gnashers, a result of months spent in the field with only basic hygiene. ‘But you’re back on the frontline now.’
Gardner’s heart pulsed. He felt the tension winding up in his spine as his body overdosed on adrenalin.
‘You picked a bad day for it.’
Too fucking right. Gardner kept the thought to himself.
They flew on to Istanbul.
19
1930 hours.
The Bosporus Bridge lit up like a glowstick across the sea. On the European side, glass-fronted towers clustered together in the Levent financial quarter. Sleek, shiny wet pebbles that looked down on the other side of the bridge. The Asian side was a tapestry of shabby mosques, slum dwellings and rickety roads.
The size of the city left Gardner breathless. It seemed to unfold into the horizon.
No time to enjoy the view. He ran his right hand over the newly attached prosthetic limb attached to his left arm. An on-board medic had patched up Gardner’s wounds and fitted him with a temporary limb, but it lacked the nerve-sensors and control of his old hand. Nothing more than a fancy-looking club.
At a cruising speed of 150 knots, equivalent to 173 mph, the Black Hawk had taken a little over two and a half hours to clear the 650 kilometres to Istanbul, flying at an altitude of 8,000 metres.
Seven thirty-four and Gardner was first to rappel down from the Black Hawk, using a Marlow rope connected to a figure-eight descender to slow his fall. He couldn’t fast-rope, not while he was essentially one-handed – he’d slam into the ground at speed and fuck his legs up.
His stomach muscles cramped on the drop. Twenty-four hours ago his V-neck shirt had been pristine white. Now it was grubby, black and brown-red. It chafed against his chest.
He dropped on
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