Free Masters of War by Chris Ryan

Danny and Boydie took it in turns to sleep, two hours on, two hours off. Danny’s sleep was fitful. Whenever Boydie started to doze, he would sort of whistle, a gentle buzzing between his tongue and the roof of his mouth that he probably wasn’t even aware of. The tune sounded mournful. Strangely familiar, though Danny couldn’t put his finger on it. An old Irish song maybe? He didn’t know. He distracted himself by recalling everything he knew about the village from the aerial photography they’d studied back at base. It was about fifty metres by fifty. In addition to the four domed buildings at the front, and the single-storey structures that surrounded them, there was a central square, about ten metres by ten. The photography had shown this square surrounded by tents. Whether these were still there, or the Bedouin had taken them with them when they left, the unit couldn’t say. Nor did they know where the hostages were being kept. They’d have to work that out on the job.
    Around midday the weather suddenly, and unexpectedly, changed. Cloud cover rolled in, but the heat was still dry and intense. Covered by the hessian camouflage, Danny felt like he was lying in a puddle of sweat. His muscles ached from lack of movement, and the pressure points where his flesh pressed against the ground throbbed. It was a relief when the light started to fail. They had seen no movement during all that time. Danny realised he was anxious – not on his own behalf, but for the hostages.
    ‘You don’t curse much, eh, Snapper?’ Boydie said out of the blue.
    Danny said nothing.
    ‘I noticed it, that’s all. Don’t know how you manage it. All those gaps in talking where you have to put a “fuck” in.’ He sniffed. ‘Or a “cunt”.’
    Danny ignored this and asked, ‘Why do you think they pretended they’d killed all four UN guys?’
    Boydie thought for a moment. ‘They’ll be pumping these two survivors for intel. My guess is they thought that, if we had them all down as dead, we wouldn’t send in a rescue mission.’ A pause. ‘I reckon our UN friends are having a pretty ugly day. That little mock execution we saw was a way of shitting them up. The PIRA boys used to do it back home. Nothing like the prospect of a bit of lead in your skull to get the old tongue wagging.’ Danny felt Boydie giving him a piercing look. ‘I heard you had a bit of family history in the Province.’
    ‘Aye,’ Danny said. It wasn’t something he liked to talk about. But Boydie kept up his gaze. ‘My dad was 1 Para,’ Danny said. ‘Took an IRA round to the side of the head during the Troubles. Total amnesia. Forgot everything.’
    ‘Jesus,’ Boydie sighed.
    ‘I was just a baby.’
    ‘How’d your ma take it?’
    Danny stared resolutely through the optic. ‘She didn’t have to,’ he said. ‘She died just after I was born.’
    Silence in the OP. Danny didn’t feel like discussing it any more. He checked his watch. ‘Seventeen hundred hours. It’ll be dark in a couple of hours,’ he said.
    And that ended the conversation.
    It was 22.00 hrs before they emerged gingerly from the OP. Keeping low, they collected up their Claymores before ducking back down into the wadi. The cloud cover rendered it darker than the previous night, so Danny engaged his NV as they picked their way back to the lying-up point to RV with Tommo and Five Bellies. Having kept radio contact to a minimum during the day, they filled their patrol mates in on the events of that morning. ‘We’ve counted five militants, all armed, plus the two hostages,’ Boydie explained. ‘But there may be more. We’re going to take out as many as we can in one hit.’ He looked over at the packs. ‘Only take what you need,’ he said. ‘We don’t know what to expect up there. We don’t want anything slowing us down.’
    It took them five minutes to prep. Each man checked his personal weapon and the contents of his belt kit: spare ammo, frags, flashbangs. Danny carried