Free Osama by Chris Ryan Page A

that made him stop and press his back against the wall of the hangar.
    He recognized immediately the distinctive sound of a Black Hawk, and it sent a series of images flashing through his head: the two body bags; the shower of shrapnel from the exploding chopper . . .
    He snapped himself out of it and turned his attention back to the Black Hawk. It was flying low over the base – thirty metres max – and was heading in from the south over towards the LZ in front of the Regiment hangar. The outline of the helicopter immediately told him it was one of the stealth models he’d seen in Pakistan. No one had access to these machines but Delta and the SEALs. One or the other was about to touch down.
    Joe kept close to the edge of the hangar, stopping at one of the front corners. Light was spilling from the front – the main door was open – and peering round he could see the elongated shadow of someone standing at the entrance.
    The modified Black Hawk hovered above the LZ and starting losing height. The shadow moved forward and Joe saw the thin, tall form of Dom Fletcher walking towards the HESCO that separated the hangar from the landing zone. Someone inside the hangar slid the door shut and the sudden absence of light messed momentarily with Joe’s night vision. By the time he’d got it back a few seconds later, Fletcher had disappeared.
    Joe crossed the ten metres between the corner of the hangar and the opening in the HESCO wall. He could hear voices on the other side.
    ‘Yank friends of yours, boss?’
    ‘Shut the fuck up and keep your positions.’ Fletcher sounded distracted.
    A pause.
    ‘Wanker,’ the first voice said. The OC had clearly left.
    A second voice just grunted in agreement.
    ‘Fucking Yanks,’ the first voice continued. ‘Why’s Fletcher licking this lot’s arses, anyway?’
    Joe moved, away from the opening and along the HESCO wall, coming to a halt after about fifteen metres. He didn’t want the OC to see him loitering there. Fletcher had already given him, Ricky and the others the third degree during their debrief, massaging the egos of the two American spooks who’d been in on the meet, and Joe had had it with his mock-Sandhurst bullshit. So he kept still in the shadows, waiting for a good moment to head back to his cot.
    Twenty seconds passed. Fletcher appeared, striding back through the opening and towards the hangar. A line of soldiers followed, walking less quickly than the OC, some of them in pairs, others in single file. He counted them: twelve, not including Fletcher. When the OC slung open the door of the hangar again, the glow from inside lit them up. All the new arrivals except one had big, bushy beards. They were distinctively American. Some wore jeans, others 511 pants. They were all carrying helmets, plate hangers and rifles – M4s with torches and laser sights mounted. Joe instantly recognized the slow, confident swagger of special forces personnel, and as one of these newcomers looked over his shoulder to say something to a mate, he recognized something else as well.
    His face.
    The guy might have been fifteen metres away, but Joe’s eyes were sharp and he’d been trained to record the tiniest detail almost without knowing he was doing it. The soldier was the only one without a beard, and his upper lip jumped out at Joe: the tiny scar – the harelip, surgically repaired.
    Instantly, Joe was back in Abbottabad, hidden among the rubble, staring at the face of the SEAL manhandling Cairo away from the scene.
    A second later the guy had turned his head again and was walking into the hangar. And after ten seconds the whole unit was inside, and somebody was sliding the metal door shut.
    Darkness. Silence. The Black Hawk had powered down and it felt as though the whole camp had suddenly plunged itself into a moment of uncharacteristic stillness. Joe crept back to his bunkhouse. He didn’t expect to sleep.
     
    0600 hours.
    Ricky was scowling. JJ too. Joe didn’t blame them. The