Free Osama by Chris Ryan Page B

sun wasn’t even up when the summons had come: Fletcher needed them in the briefing area. Sharpish.
    ‘What the fuck does he want?’ JJ muttered, scratching at his beard. Joe’s own face was itching too. It might be early, but the temperature was already hot and he still hadn’t showered since they’d returned from Abbottabad. He knew he must stink, but everyone stank out here. He half wondered if he should tell the others that at least one of the guys who’d conducted the raid on Abbottabad had just popped in for a cosy little chat with Fletcher. Maybe if he’d been alone with Ricky, he would have. But he kept quiet as they headed to their RV.
    Fletcher didn’t look like a man who’d been up in the small hours. His eyes were bright, his uniform fresh and now he was clean-shaven. When they entered, he was examining imagery at the computer screens, accompanied by three men Joe didn’t recognize. One of them was wearing standard Yankee multicam; the other two were in suits and did not have a military bearing. The moment Fletcher saw them, he jabbed his thumb in the direction of the briefing area before turning back to his screens. Joe and Ricky exchanged a look and followed his instruction.
    Raz, who had partnered JJ back in Abbottabad, was already in the briefing room. He was sitting in the back row of seats, looking thoroughly pissed off. He was not the only man there. Standing silently against the walls were the twelve American SF men that Joe had seen arriving just a couple of hours ago. Joe got a better look at them. They were all wearing black and white shamags around their necks, and their shades were either propped up on their foreheads or hanging round their necks on black cord. Seven of them wore beards that were even more unkempt than Joe’s; none of them wore smiles. They all had skin that was baked leathery brown and, with the exception of three of them, had multicam baseball caps fitted backwards over their heads. The standard uniform of the American SF soldier. Joe picked out the man with the scarred lip. He wore neither a baseball cap nor a beard. He looked Latino, with slicked-back hair and pock-marked skin. He was staring straight ahead and, like all the others, he didn’t even acknowledge the arrival of the SAS men.
    ‘Sit down!’
    Joe looked over his shoulder to see Fletcher enter, along with the three strangers. Joe and his mates took seats next to Raz. None of the Americans moved; not until the three strangers had reached the front of the briefing area and the uniformed man had nodded at them. At his signal they silently occupied the front two rows, while Fletcher and the three others remained standing at the front.
    It was Fletcher who spoke first. He neither welcomed nor introduced anyone. Not his style. ‘OK gentlemen,’ he instructed. ‘Here’s what you need to know. Intelligence wires are buzzing. I don’t have to tell you why. We’ve got every AQ cell from Kabul to Kidderminster planning a revenge attack.’
    ‘Surprise surprise,’ Raz muttered.
    ‘Village of Nawaz, thirty-five klicks south-east of here. Our American friends’ – he indicated his three companions – ‘have been monitoring ICOM chatter radiating from a known Taliban communications centre based in an old school building. It seems to suggest that—’
    The uniformed Yank stood forward. ‘Why don’t I take it from there?’ he said in a lazy drawl.
    Fletcher nodded, but Joe noticed a slight tightness around his eyes.
    ‘The name Anwar Zahari won’t mean anything to any of you gentlemen,’ the Yank said. ‘No reason why it should. He’s a Taliban grunt, but he’s a very skilled explosives engineer. Last known location was an AQ sanctuary in Eritrea. We weren’t aware of his presence in this part of the world until just a few hours ago when his name started coming over the ICOM. If he’s in the area and active, he’s only doing one thing. We need to stop him from doing it. From what we can establish,