they did. When a high-velocity round enters the body, it creates a vortex behind it like the wake after a boat. As it leaves, the pressure equalizes. There's a small air explosion that rips the exit wound open. It's what high-velocity rounds are designed to do.
22
My arm hurt like fuck as it swung and I had to cradle it against my chest.
Screwing up my eyes, I turned right, headed past the morgue and into the dining tent. People were coming and going with mugs of brew. The entrance was full of people in body armour and helmets washing their hands in cleansing liquid so's not to waste water. They looked at me like I was an alien. 'I know, I haven't got any. Anybody know where Media Ops are?'
I was pointed beyond the cookhouse. I turned left by the showers and half walked, half ran, asking for directions along the way. Most people knew their own areas and that was it.
Eventually I found myself outside two Portakabins with huge air-conditioning condenser boxes. I knew where I was now. This was where we'd had our briefings.
There was movement inside the second Portakabin. I went in and the place was almost as cold as the mortuary tent. The Royal Artillery captain who'd done the meet and greet was behind a desk. I couldn't remember his name – I'd just nodded and agreed as he gave his talk, not expecting to see him again. But I did remember he was in the Territorials, and had volunteered to come out here. In the real world, he was responsible for Plymouth Council's CCTV cameras.
He seemed shocked to see me. 'Nick, how are you? I was coming round later. I wanted you to rest first.' He looked uncomfortable. He stood up and took a breath to give me the bad news.
I put up a hand. 'I know Pete's dead. The recce sergeant's already seen me.'
He sat down, relieved not to be the one. I was a civvy. I might want to cry on his shoulder and have a hug.
'Why didn't he have any body armour on?'
'I don't know. We told you lot to wear it all the time – and a helmet. It was part of the briefing. Dom told us they were getting some shots of the Merlins flying low. They didn't have permission. They didn't inform anyone of what they were doing. We cannot take responsibility for these actions. They should have informed me that they—'
This was bollocks. 'Where's Dom now?'
'He's left. I don't know where or how. His kit's gone and he hasn't even signed out.'
'Signed out? How the fuck's he going to get out of here? Call a minicab?'
'He must be taking the two o'clock. It's thoroughly irresponsible behaviour – it doesn't help the media's call for closer liaison.'
'Shut up, for fuck's sake, and give me a lift to the terminal.'
I followed him back out into the heat. The Media Ops company car was a dust-covered Discovery that knocked out air-conditioning, but not enough. I shielded my eyes from the glare as we came out of one compound and went into another. We bounced over dusty tracks, working our way up to the metalled road that paralleled the runway.
'What's going to happen to Pete?'
'The TV station has notified his wife. They're arranging for her to receive him at Brize Norton. After that? Well . . .'
I held up the plastic bag. 'I'll take this back to her.'
We hit the tarmac. The terminal was about two clicks further up. It looked like another of Saddam's palaces. Lots of marble and towers, but surrounded by barbed wire and HESCOs. Squaddies zoomed up and down the road in stripped-down Land Rovers with .50-cal machine-guns on the back.
The Brits had used the terminal as their temporary HQ after the war until the COB was built. It had since been handed back to the civilian authorities, and catered for just one flight a day. No airline except Jordanian was willing to take the risk.
We parked outside the building. I didn't care if the media guy stayed or not. I just ran into the cavernous empty terminal.
There were about four people in civvies, but none was Dom. All the rest, about ten of them, were RMPs with dogs and SA80s.
Another marble quarry must have been gutted to build this place. The roof had to be at least seventy metres high. The walls still had gaffer-tape marks from where the Brits had run cables.